Dans la gueule du loup (into the lion's den)
by Paul Auchon
Summary: Sequel to "Unhappy customer" and "A simple mission, really" The CIA experts have finally managed to extract information from the coded notebook stolen by Solo. The team is sent to the south west of France to investigate this new lead. They have never been closer to discovering who is pulling the strings, but this might prove to be their most dangerous mission yet.
1. Chapter 1

**New story! :) Sequel to Unhappy customer and A simple mission,really.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own the characters**

 **Here is another drawing if you want to know what really happened to Asher at the end of the previous story :P :**

 **"https":"/""/""ibb".co"/Z1M0Wd5 (just remove the "")**

* * *

 _ **MI6 building, Gaby's p.o.v.,**_

* * *

"But tell us again, Marshall, how long did you stand there before you realized the shooter was gone?"

"It's not funny, Solo.", Gaby scolded as Napoleon chuckled softly.

She looked at Illya but, judging by the smile playing on his lips, she was not going to find any support there. She had to admit that it _was_ slightly funny, and now that she had seen her partners laugh and was picturing the scene in her mind again, she was finding it hard to keep a straight face. Poor Asher had even missed his plane.

"Maybe someone was playing a joke on you.", she said, to divert attention from the smile that was creeping upon her lips. "One of your colleagues, maybe? The shooter had to know where you usually park your car and when you would get off work." Gaby knew that some of Asher's colleagues liked to tease him about the fact that he had been targeted by a contract killer.

"Or maybe Sanders.", Napoleon suggested with a cheeky smile. "I wouldn't put it past him."

"That's seriously messed up for a joke..." Asher paused for a second. "Then again...I know a few sharpshooters who have a rather...peculiar sense of humor. But that guy...he was impossibly fast, and he had insane accuracy skills..."

Gaby noticed that Asher was holding one hand over his heart as he spoke, as if he was reliving the unpleasant episode in his mind.

 _Poor Asher..._

She felt even guiltier for finding the situation funny, but she also knew that part of the reason they were all smiling and teasing him was that they were relieved Asher was alive. She glanced at Illya again. He was no longer smiling and was staring intently at the CIA agent. She knew exactly what was on his mind, and on Asher's mind. Of course she had thought about it too, they all had. Blake.

 _But Blake certainly wouldn't have let Asher live..._

"Anyway", Asher said, apparently eager to change the subject. "Sanders filled me in on what the code-breaking team discovered. It looks like this is going to be an interesting mission..."

"Indeed. Good thing someone had the presence of mind to steal this notebook..."

Gaby blew out a small sigh and smiled.

 _Here we go again..._

"Solo, did you seriously expect Sanders to give you a medal?"

"A "thank you" would have been enough...", Napoleon grumbled with feigned indignation.

Asher chuckled.

"Yeah...even that was highly unlikely. So...when are we leaving?"

"Tomorrow morning.", Napoleon answered. "Destination: southwest France. At this time of year there might still be some snow in the mountains...our Russian Bigfoot will feel at home."

Illya muttered something in Russian under his breath. Probably not a compliment, if Napoleon's reaction was any indication. Gaby watched her bickering partners. She could tell that Illya was still troubled. At least, with the important mission ahead of them, he would not have much time to worry about Blake.

A few minutes later, Waverly joined them to go over the details of the mission one last time. After the hour-long meeting, as they were all standing up to leave, Waverly put his hand on Asher's shoulder.

"Perhaps it would be wise to have Kuryakin walk you back to your hotel...you know, in case someone tries to kill you again. Adrian will never forgive me if something happens to you _before_ you complete your mission..."

A small, mischievous smile formed on Waverly's lips and, this time, Gaby couldn't suppress a chuckle at the sight of the CIA agent's mortified expression.

 _Welcome to the team, Asher!.._

* * *

 **End of chapter 1. :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2! Let's make this a nice, calm chapt...uh-oh... :P**

* * *

 ** _Unknown location, Solo's p.o.v._**

* * *

"So which one of you is it going to be?"

 _Pick Asher, please just pick Asher..._

Napoleon cast a furtive glance at the younger agent.

 _Just look at those beautiful, terror-filled, hazel eyes. He's the perfect victim..._

The look of raw fear in his partner's eyes was pretty convincing and he hoped it would be enough to make their captor choose Asher. The five other men in the room, French and American, were looking expectantly at their leader - what was his name again? Dasque? - waiting for him to designate a victim. Napoleon tightened his grip on the bobby pin. The last thing they needed was for him to drop it. He knew that he needed to hurry but, with the man's attention focused on them, he didn't dare make his move yet.

"It's almost ready."

One of the men had taken the branding iron out of the fire and was holding it up in front of them. He saw Asher flinch in his peripheral vision.

 _Nice acting.._ _._

Napoleon had noticed on several occasions that Asher Marshall was quite a good actor when the situation demanded it, although this time he suspected that his colleague was barely pretending. Dasque's eyes darted from one agent to the other. Several times. Then a vicious smile formed on his lips.

"Bring me Marshall."

 _Yes! I knew he wouldn't be able to resist..._

Napoleon wasn't sure exactly what it was, but there was just something about Marshall...the man was a damn magnet for sadists. Of course the poor agent looked slightly less thrilled than Napoleon felt as Dasque's two American henchmen walked up to the chair he was cuffed to. They removed the handcuffs to allow him to stand up. Then they roughly pushed him toward the center of the room.

"Put him on the table."

 _Alright, Mr Marshall...your time to shine, give them hell!..._

As the two men dragged Asher toward the beautifully carved wooden table, the agent, who up until that moment had looked convincingly paralyzed by fear, suddenly seemed to snap out of his trance. He managed to wrench his left arm free from his surprised captor's grip and used it to shatter the man's nose with a violent elbow strike. The man staggered away, swearing and holding a protective hand over his nose. The other American was a big man, he was still holding Asher's right arm and was trying to apply an arm lock. The agent was more skilled in hand-to-hand combat, though, and it wouldn't be long before he managed to escape his grip. But of course, Dasque was not going to let that happen.

"I said put him on the table. Don't you people understand your own language? Ibrac, Daroit...give them a hand."

Two of the three men who had been standing close to Napoleon went to help their American colleague.

 _Good...That's two less pairs of eyes I have to worry about. Just keep them busy a little longer..._

Napoleon was working as fast as he could but the stubborn pin stubbornly refused to open the stubborn handcuffs. The fact that there was still a guard posted next to him wasn't helping either. Not only did he have to concentrate on opening the damn cuffs, he also had to make it look like he was horrified by what they were about to do to Asher. Not that he wasn't. To tell the truth, he was awfully glad that he wasn't in Marshall's shoes. But he had more pressing things to focus on at the moment. It was a good thing that they had not bothered to cuff Asher's hands behind his back again. Once Napoleon managed to get rid of his own handcuffs, the two of them would have a chance to fight their way out of this mess. Napoleon hadn't seen any guns in the room. Their captors didn't seem to be carrying theirs but he couldn't be sure they didn't have holsters concealed under their clothes. If they were armed, he would just have to make sure they didn't get a chance to draw. He had spotted a wooden club behind the door, not far from his chair. At least he would have _some_ kind of weapon. He also had a small throwing knife, hidden in an ankle sheath, that would probably come in handy. For the rest...He would have to improvise. Asher was still struggling as hard as he could but with three - three and a half if you counted Broken-nose - men against one, the odds were not in his favor. Dasque was obviously amused by the agent's efforts. His men, on the other hand, were not. Asher was a good fighter, he was fast and he hit hard. After a few more minutes they finally managed to lift the wriggling agent up and lay him down on the table.

"Good. Hold him still.", Dasque instructed.

But Asher wasn't giving up yet, he suddenly turned his head and sank his teeth into the big American's hand, which had been pressing down on his shoulder.

"Ow! What the hell! The bastard bit me!"

He let go of Asher who immediately sat up. At that moment the last man who had been keeping an eye on Napoleon rushed to his struggling colleague's aid. Together, they grabbed Asher's arms and they slammed him back down on the table hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

"Finally."

Napoleon glanced at Dasque as he stepped around the table to get a closer look at his victim. The Frenchman was smiling in anticipation. Things were not looking good.

 _I just need a little more time...why won't those damn things open?! Houdini must be rolling over in his grave...okay, just focus, you can panic when you start smelling burning flesh..._

Hopefully it wouldn't come to that.

"What a nice little calf. What part of your body are we going to brand?"

The men laughed cruelly.

"Son visage!*", Daroit exclaimed. (*His face)

"Non. I want him to be able to see it..."

 _Well...at least that rules out his backside..._

"Oh I think I know.", Dasque went on as he suddenly grabbed each side of Asher's collar and ripped his shirt open. He let his finger hover over the agent's bare skin for a few seconds, then brought it down and traced an imaginary circle over the left side of his chest.

"Juste ici*, it will look perfect." (*Right here)

Napoleon almost blew out a loud sigh of relief as he felt the handcuffs finally click open. As silently as possible, he slipped them off his wrists and glanced at the scene in front of him. The men were all eagerly waiting for their leader to start torturing Marshall. Most of them were facing away from him. No one was paying attention to him. He retrieved the throwing knife from his ankle sheath and slowly extended his arm to reach for the club. As Dasque turned around to fetch the branding iron, Napoleon seized the opportunity to get out of the chair and started sneaking up on the group. He froze as Dasque turned around again, returning with the red-hot branding iron. Luckily, the room was dimly lit, Napoleon was concealed in the shadows and the man was too focused on what he was doing to spot him. Dasque brandished the branding iron in front of Asher's face. Napoleon silently stepped closer. He saw Dasque place a firm hand on the right side of the poor agent's chest and bring the iron down with the other. Slowly. A small sound of distress escaped Asher's lips. He wasn't acting this time.

 _Just a few more seconds, buddy..._

The younger agent's self-control was impressive. Not once had he glanced in Napoleon's direction. Broken-nose suddenly seemed to sense that something was going on behind him and he briskly turned around. He stared into Napoleon's eyes for a couple of seconds, his mouth agape. Whoosh! went the throwing knife. Straight into the man's throat. Not bad. Illya would have been proud. As the man gasped and raised his hands to his throat, Napoleon gripped the club with both hands and swung. Hard. The wooden club produced a satisfying "crack" as it connected with Daroit's head, then with the big American's shoulder on the way back. Another swing and the third, unnamed Frenchman staggered backwards. Dasque was looking at Napoleon with wide eyes, he was still holding the branding iron above Asher's chest. Except that there was no one left to hold Asher down... The agent grabbed Dasque's arm and brought the red-hot piece of metal down on the man's own hand, which had been resting on his chest. Napoleon heard a hair-raising shriek and he felt a grin tug at the corners of his mouth. Then he felt something else. And his grin instantly disappeared. Someone was holding what felt suspiciously like the barrel of a gun against his back.

"Turn around. Slowly."

French accent.

"Nice try but I'm not falling for that old trick. I know it's just a finger gun."

"I can maybe shoot in the head of your friend to prove you that I'm serious."

Napoleon turned around. Slowly. In addition to his poor English grammar, Ibrac was pointing a MAC-50 pistol at him.

 _Well...this is slightly disappointing..._

He heard movement behind him and instinctively flinched just as something hit him hard on the back of the head.

"Hé, mollo*, Daroit.", Ibrac warned. (*Hey, easy)

Napoleon carefully touched the back of his head. No blood. Good. Then he turned around to face his attacker. He was fairly confident that Ibrac wasn't going to shoot him. Daroit, who was sporting an award-winning bump on the side of his head, was also holding a gun - which he had just used to hit him and was now pointing at "the head of Asher". The big American was crouching next to Broken-nose's still body.

"That asshole killed Edwards."

"La ferme*!", (*Shut up!) Dasque suddenly yelled, making everyone - except Edwards, of course - jump. "Qu'est-ce qu'on en a à foutre d'Edwards!* (*Who gives a damn about Edwards!) He was a useless piece of shit! Aaaah merde*..." (*Aaaah crap)

 _I take it that's painful..._

Napoleon looked down at the ugly burn on the man's hand, then up at Asher. The other agent flashed his boyish smile and gave him an almost imperceptible wink before the big American and Unnamed-Frenchman brutally pulled his arms behind his back and cuffed him again. Dasque was still cursing in French, cradling his hand.

"Ah le p'tit salaud*..." (*little bastard) He turned toward Daroit. "Foutez-le dans la putain de cage!"

 _What?..._

Put him in the cage? What cage?

"But they said we had to wait for them.", the big American intervened. "They clearly stated that they wanted them alive. You don't want to mess with those people... you know what they're like..."

"Qu'ils aillent se faire foutre ces tarés* (*Screw those twisted bastards) , they don't know what _I'm_ like! I said put him in the cage and that's exactly what you're going to do... Et fais-le saigner d'abord!"

Fais-le saigner?... Make him bleed? Napoleon frowned and exchanged a glance with Asher. He saw his own confusion mirrored in the other agent's expression. Were they going to slit his wrists or stab him and just let him bleed out? But why bother to put him in a cage? Was it some sort of traditional French execution method?

"What are you waiting for. Do it, now!"

For the second time, the big American knelt down beside his unfortunate colleague's corpse and pulled the knife out of his throat. He wiped it clean on the dead man's shirt and walked up to Asher. Daroit and Unnamed-Frenchman each grabbed one of the agent's arms.

 _That's not good..._

The American used the knife to slice off the few remaining buttons on Asher's shirt and spread it open. He started raising the knife, then paused. Napoleon saw an amused smile form on the man's lips as he used his finger to trace the x-shaped scar on Asher's torso. The worried expression on the agent's face seemed to intensify. He probably expected the man to carve another stupid shape into his skin. Fortunately, the big man lacked inspiration and he simply slashed Asher across the chest. Twice. Asher grunted in pain, Napoleon winced in sympathy, and everyone watched in silence as blood started dripping from the long incisions. The man stepped back, apparently satisfied.

 _What, that's all?..._

"Perfect. Take him to the cage now. Adieu, Agent Marshall."

Napoleon noticed that Dasque was smiling despite the pain. The two agents exchanged one last confused glance before Asher was dragged out of the room by Daroit and his colleague.

"May I ask where they are taking him? See, I'm supposed to bring him home before curfew and..."

"Let me make things clear for you, Agent Solo", Dasque spat out, his upper lip twitching with anger. "the wisest course of action for you now is to shut up, sit down on that chair and wait for death in silence. Unless you want to join your colleague..."

Napoleon had at least a dozen witty comebacks in mind and was ready to fire but the barrel of Ibrac's gun, jammed into his face, dissuaded him. They tied him to the chair, with a length of rope this time, and Dasque left the room, leaving only the big American and Ibrac to keep an eye on him. He tried to ask about Marshall but both men completely ignored him. After about fifteen minutes, Daroit was back. Napoleon heard him talk with Ibrac in hushed tones. He concentrated as hard as he could but was only able to catch fragments of the conversation. One sentence caught his attention, though.

"On va avoir des ennuis, on aurait pas du le mettre avélélou..."

 _We're gonna be in trouble, we shouldn't have put him ...avélélou?... damn this guy's southern accent...what does it mean?..._

To tell the truth, Napoleon was finding it hard to keep track of what was going on. The whole mission had exploded into a giant mess. He knew that Dasque and his clique had to be connected to the main organization but who were those people they kept talking about. The ones who "wanted them alive"? And where the hell were Illya and Gaby? They had been at the inn too, when they had all been attacked by Dasque and his men, so what had happened to them? He was almost certain that they weren't dead. Dasque would have been too happy to deliver the news to Marshall and him if that had been the case. Napoleon decided that it was probably a good sign that his two partners were missing. They had probably escaped and would barge in to rescue them soon.

 _What? A little optimism doesn't hurt..._

* * *

 _ **A few minutes earlier, Asher's p.o.v.**_

* * *

"You're uncuffing me?"

"It will last a bit longer, that way.", Daroit answered with a shrug as he stuffed the cuffs into his jacket pocket.

 _That's reassuring..._

He glanced at the other Frenchman who had the gun trained on him, but the man's expression was unreadable. Daroit unlocked the huge metal gate in front of them and it creaked open.

"Get in."

He felt the gun being pressed against his back. He stepped into the "cage" which was actually some kind of subterranean cavern fitted with a metal gate. He registered the sound of the gate being pushed shut and locked behind him. The "floor" of the cage was pale-gray stone, with a few pieces of what looked like dry wood scattered here and there. Weird. He suddenly became aware of the eerie silence. He turned around, expecting his captors to be gone. But both men were still there, and their eyes were fixed on the ground near his feet. Asher looked down. The cuts on his chest were still bleeding and a few drops of blood had stained the stony ground. This was what the two men were staring at, as if transfixed by the small crimson stains.

 _What's wrong with those guys..._

"Good luck, Agent Marshall. If it's any consolation, your partner's fate will probably be much worse.", Daroit said.

Then, without another word, both men turned around and left. Asher watched them through the bars of the gate until they disappeared.

 _Well, I suppose it's time to explore our new habitat..._

The far end of the cavern was not lighted and Asher couldn't tell how big it actually was. He took a few steps forward and peered into the darkness. He was about to venture into the shadowed area when a sound suddenly made him freeze. A low growl. Just as he started retreating toward the gate, a shape emerged from the darkness.

 _"_ Oh...what a cute little pup..."

 _Quit fooling yourself, Asher, that's a wolf..._

Another silent shape appeared behind the first one. Then another.

"Looks like it's a whole family of pups..."

 _No, Asher, it's a damn pack of wolves..._

He took another step back. Slowly. The first "pup" sniffed the ground, all the while keeping its eyes fixed on Asher. Then it started licking the pale stone. Greedily.

"Oh...so, you like my blood...wonderful...Sanders is never going to believe that this is how I died..."

* * *

 **End of chapter 2. Ooops, I wonder how they got themselves into such a sticky situation ;) I hope you enjoyed the read :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**(short) Chapter 3!**

 ** ** ** **(here is the design for Maxime Drancy (made in character creator 3): "https":"/""/""ibb".co"/"album"/"g9a3qa (just remove the ""), I'll add more characters to the album soon :) )********

* * *

 _ **Val d'Azun*, somewhere in the mountains, Illya's p.o.v.**_

* * *

Illya blew out a sharp sigh of relief as he finally spotted the wooden cabin through his binoculars. He could even make out a thin stream of smoke coming out of the chimney. The dense fog, which had prevented him from venturing farther up the mountain, had finally lifted and the full moon cast an eerie glow on the landscape, its light reflecting off the snow patches, high on the flank of the moutain. Illya knew he needed to hurry. He also knew there was a possibility that his partners were already dead. But there was no point in dwelling on that thought. Besides, there had to be a reason why their attackers had not killed Cowboy and Asher back at the inn. It was reasonable to assume that they wouldn't have bothered to take his partners all the way up here to just kill them…Okay, maybe he _was_ dwelling on that thought. A sudden breeze made him shiver. The fog had soaked through his clothes and he could feel the wet fabric clinging uncomfortably to his skin. As he silently hiked up the steep, rocky trail, he replayed the events of the evening in his mind.

The meeting with Maxime Drancy had gone well. The Frenchman had managed to find additional information about the possible whereabouts of the criminal base they had been looking for. Drancy was their French contact, posing as their mountain guide. He was an agent of the DST (directorate of territorial security), a French intelligence agency. He was also an old friend of Waverly's. Illya had been slightly surprised upon meeting the man for the first time; Drancy was at least a decade younger than his boss. A tall, broad-shouldered man with perpetually tousled blond hair, a deceptively serious face and tongue-in-cheek sense of humor. He could see why Waverly and him got along well. At least Drancy had left the inn about three hours before the attack so he was probably safe. Probably. Still, Illya had not been able to contact him after the attack. Too bad. He certainly could have used the French agent's help to rescue his partners. He would have to manage alone. Fortunately, he had been able to retrieve his gear from his room after the men had left. He had found the owner of the inn dead, with a nice bullet hole dead center in his chest. And another one in his face. _And_ a few stab wounds to his chest and abdomen. Talk about overkill. The men who had done that were obviously not cold, detached professionals. The messy kill suggested an impulsive nature. And impulsive people were prone to making mistakes, which was exactly what Illya was counting on. Their first mistake had been to leave without making sure that he had either been captured or killed. Now he had weapons, the element of surprise on his side, and a very strong desire to destroy those assholes. Good thing he had not been inside when the attack had occurred. About an hour after dinner, he had decided to slip out of his room and check the perimeter around the inn to make sure that they were not being watched. And, if he was completely honest, he had also been trying to walk off a stomach bloat caused by the inn's particularly heavy cassoulet. Ironically enough, the attack had come from the inside. He had hurried back as soon as he had heard the gunshots but by the time he had reached the inn, the men had already been walking out, holding Cowboy and Asher at gunpoint. He had recognized some of the attackers. Other guests who had been staying at the inn. Cowboy had even exchanged small talk with some of them the previous night. The organization had clearly warned the local branch that they were coming. But how had they known? Illya had barely had enough time to plant a tracker on one of the vehicles parked outside before his partners had been shoved toward the car and forcibly pushed inside. It was only after the last vehicle had left that Illya had realized, with a sudden feeling of dread, that Gaby had not been with the others. He had searched the inn, but had found no trace of her. Maybe she had been in one of the other cars, or maybe she had escaped and gone into hiding. Either way, she was alive. She had to be. The time he had spent looking for her, gathering up his gear and trying to reach Drancy had given the criminals a comfortable head start but, fortunately, he had been able to catch up with them. Then the damn fog had fallen on the mountain.

He clenched his jaw in frustration. Precious time wasted. As he stealthily moved closer to the cabin - which was surpisingly bigger than it had looked from down there - he paused and scanned his surroundings for potential sentries. He spotted one man posted not far from the rear entrance of the cabin. Keeping his eyes fixed on the guard, he crouched down low and pulled his combat knife out of his leg sheath. He felt his heart begin to pound in anticipation.

 _Let's do this…_

* * *

 _ **Unknown location**_

* * *

"Easy. Remember, we want to keep this one alive too, Conor."

"Don't call me that."

The young man glared at his colleague. He wasn't much older than twenty, tall, muscular, with thick, dark hair. The other man was about the same height and build but he was older. He had an easy smile, a short, neatly trimmed beard, and short fair hair.

"If I remember correctly, _I_ caught him. Not you. I can do whatever I want to him.", the young man said coldly.

He brushed a strand of sweaty sandy hair away from Maxime Drancy's brow and smiled at the sight of the bruise that was starting to form on his temple. Then he punched him again, in the stomach this time. The DST agent's knees buckled and he would probably have crumpled to the floor without the shackles holding him up. The young man shot a sideways glance at his colleague who still had a patient smile pasted on his face. In deliberate provocation, he kicked Drancy in the ribs, putting so much power into his kick that he had to take an awkward step to steady himself.

"You need to work on your balance, Conor."

"Screw you."

He was about to hit the French agent again, when something made him pause. His hand reached up to Drancy's open shirt collar and he pulled out a gold chain with a small gold medallion. The young man's lips curled into a smile as he noticed the tiny angel carved into the gold. He looked straight into the Frenchman's pain-filled eyes and gave a hard pull, breaking the thin chain. He then dangled the medallion in front of Drancy's face before stuffing it into his breast pocket.

"Maybe we can get on with the assignment…if you're done with playtime, of course."

The young man turned to face his colleague.

"I'll kill you.", he said with a cold smile.

The older man smiled back and walked past him without a word. The young assassin waited until his colleague had left the room and slipped his knife out of his shoulder sheath. He stepped around the French agent to position himself right behind him. Shooting a furtive glance at the half-open door, he grabbed the agent by the hair, pulled his head up and placed the blade against the side of his neck. He could feel Drancy's rapid pulse, throbbing against his hand. His grip tightened around the knife handle. He waited for a few seconds. Then he removed the blade, let go of the agent's hair, and slid the knife back into his sheath. He huffed out a sigh and delivered one last good punch to Drancy's stomach. He stood there for another few seconds, listening to the agent's pained gasps, then he walked out of the room.

* * *

 ***The Val d'Azun is a valley in the French Pyrenees (it's beautiful :) )**

 **End of chapter 3.**

 **So yeah, go Illya! And sorry monsieur Drancy :s**

 **I hope you enjoyed the read :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 :)**

 ** ** ** **(here are the designs for Maxime Drancy and Conor Reed (made in character creator 3): "https":"/""/""ibb".co"/"album"/"g9a3qa (just remove the ""), I'll add more characters to the album soon :) )********

* * *

 _ **The cage, Asher's p.o.v.**_

* * *

 _Shitshitshitshitshitshit…_

Asher grabbed another piece of bone, hastily rubbed some blood on it, and hurled it as far as he could. This time, only two of the wolves went to fetch the bone. The others did not move, their eyes remained fixed on him. After a few seconds, the largest one of the pack started pacing in a semi-circle around him. Asher bent down to pick up another bone and when he looked up, he noticed that the big wolf had moved closer. His heart skipped a beat. This time, he didn't even bother putting his blood on the bone and simply threw it, as hard as he could, at the wolf's head. The bone connected with the animal's head and it let out an angry snarl as it took a step backwards…then resumed its pacing. The two other wolves which had not been busy with the bloody bone started pacing too. Those three were obviously done with playing fetch.

 _Yep…You're screwed, Asher. Sooo completely screwed…_

Asher scanned the ground around him. He had run out of ammunition. All he had left was the large piece of animal bone, which he intended to use as a club if the wolves decided to pounce on him. With no weapons and no way out, the only solution he had come up with to keep the wolves at bay had been to continuously supply them with things covered in his blood. The first thing to go had been his shirt, balled up, with his blood and his scent on it, he had hoped that it would keep them busy for a while. But of course, after ripping the shirt apart and realizing that it was only fabric, the wolves had lost interest. Seeing that they were not particularly interested in clothing, Asher had decided to keep his pants and underwear on and instead, he had started using what he had initially mistaken for dry wood. Pieces of bone. Mostly from animals as far as he could tell, but a few looked as if they could have belonged to humans. Humans like him, who had died in this cage. He had started picking up the bones and purposefully making his cuts bleed to rub the blood onto the bones. Throwing the bloody bones had worked for a short while. The coppery scent of his fresh blood attracted them like a magnet, and gnawing on the Asher-flavored bones required much less effort than attacking and bringing down a living prey. But, inevitably, after a while, the wolves had started to lose interest. A few drops of blood on a dry bone weren't enough. They wanted flesh. They wanted _his_ flesh. He shuddered as he imagined what it would feel like to be torn apart by a pack of wolves. Hopefully, shock would numb the pain. The wolves had slowly and silently moved even closer. Asher picked up the bone-club, and started raising it. But before he could assume his best batting stance and without any warning, the largest wolf pounced on him. The impact drove all the air out of his lungs and he dropped the piece of bone as he fell backwards. Asher gasped for breath, raising his arms to protect his face. He could feel sharp claws, digging painfully into the bare skin of his chest. He heard the wolf's jaws snap close, mere inches away from his throat…and he started screaming.

* * *

 _ **Near the moutain cabin, Illya's p.o.v.**_

* * *

Illya had just begun his silent approach when the guard did something he had not been expecting. The man turned to look at the cabin, as if he was making sure that no one was watching him, then he started heading _away_ from the cabin, toward Illya.

 _What is he doing?…_

Illya was almost certain that the guard had not spotted him but it wouldn't be long before he did if he continued in that direction. As the guard got closer, Illya crouched down lower and adjusted his grip on the knife. Fortunately, the man stopped about halfway between the cabin and his hiding place. Illya risked a glance and saw the guard bend down and lift something. Then he disappeared, as if swallowed whole by the ground. Illya hesitated, his gaze shifting from the spot where the guard had vanished to the cabin. He waited a few seconds before silently closing the distance between himself and the mysterious spot. As he suspected, there was a trapdoor, and several unevenly spaced rungs leading down. He glanced up at the cabin again. Was this an underground access? Maybe that was just the ticket to get in undetected. Then again there was a possibility that this underground passage was not connected to the cabin at all.

 _Only one way to be sure…_

He grunted as he barely managed to fit his big frame and his backpack through the narrow opening. Thankfully, it got wider as he climbed down the rungs, still holding his knife awkwardly, hoping the guard wouldn't turn back, find him in this vulnerable position, and shoot him in the backside. After a while, he got to the bottom of the "ladder", jumped off, and scanned his surroundings. He was in a dimly lit underground chamber. He could see the opening of a tunnel to his left. There was probably a whole network of tunnels carved into the mountain.

 _Great…_

Keeping his knife in one hand, he used the other to draw his gun and started down the tunnel. After a couple of minutes of walking, he started hearing strange noises, distorted as they bounced off the stony walls. It sounded like a scuffle. He could make out growling and snarling sounds.

 _What..?_

He could also clearly recognize a man's voice crying out, as if in pain. And that voice sounded vaguely familiar. He almost rolled his eyes.

 _Not again…_

He cursed silently and started walking faster. After a particularly sharp turn, he stopped abruptly. The passage widened into a chamber again, much bigger than the first one. The guard was there. Right in front of him. His back to him. Watching. Watching as a massive grey wolf sank its fangs deep into Asher's left shoulder. The CIA agent was lying on the ground with the wolf on top of him and at least four other wolves ready to pounce. Asher cried out again, his arms flailing, as the wolf started shaking its head savagely, its teeth still embedded deep in his shoulder. As the guard let out a cruel laugh, Illya decided that he had seen enough. He quickly raised his gun and fired one round into the back of the guard's head. The large wolf's head snapped up at the sound of the gunshot and as Illya squeezed off another round in their direction, the pack retreated toward the other end of the cave, swiftly disappearing into the shadows.

"They'll be back.", Asher groaned as he laboriously got to his feet.

Illya walked up to the metal gate and set his backpack down on the ground.

"I doubt it. But I strongly suggest you go join them for a few seconds.", he said pulling something out of the backpack. The CIA agent took a few steps back as Illya attached the small explosive charge to the lock of the gate. He detonated the charge and the lock exploded, allowing Asher to push the gate open.

"Thanks."

"Solo?"

"He's upstairs. With that French asshole, Dasque, and a handful of other guards."

 _He's alive then. Good…_

"Gaby?"

"I haven't seen her since the attack…"

Illya simply nodded, trying to hide his concern and disappointment. He took a few seconds to examine his partner. He noticed the claw marks on the other agent's arms and torso. His gaze lingered on two long, nasty cuts on Asher's chest, then shifted to his pale face, then to his wounded shoulder. Blood was dripping onto the ground.

"Where is your shirt?"

"I…", Asher began, vaguely pointing at the cavern behind him. "…nevermind, it's gone."

Illya let out a disapproving sigh. He didn't know how long the wolves would stay away and he didn't want to waste ammunition on the animals, but he knew he needed to at least bandage Asher's shoulder wound. He fished the first aid kit out of his backpack, doused the bite wound with antiseptic powder and hastily wrapped the agent's shoulder with gauze and tape. He also cleaned the cuts on his chest as best he could and applied some more antiseptic. Satisfied, he stuffed the first-aid kit back into his backpack.

"Please tell me you have a spare shirt in there.", Asher said, nodding at the backpack.

"No. But I know where you can borrow one.", Illya answered, glancing down at the ground.

"…

No way."

A few minutes later Illya and Asher – who was now wearing the dead guard's shirt – reached another chamber with rungs leading to the surface. They had taken a different path this time. The one Asher and his captors had used when he had been brought down to the cage to be devoured by wolves. As they hurried along the tunnels, Asher had filled him in on what had happened inside the cabin. From what he understood, the people who had captured his partners were waiting for someone to come pick up the prisoners. Probably assassins. Or powerful members of the organization, as the contents of the notebook seemed to suggest. Either way it didn't matter. He would rescue Cowboy before those people had a chance to get their hands on him. Then they would find Gaby, and take the bastards down. After all, that was what they had come here for. To take down the organization. And the fact that they had been attacked so soon after their arrival was encouraging, in a way. It meant that they were close, very close to discovering who was pulling the strings, and the enemy was getting nervous.

"What about Drancy?", Asher suddenly asked.

"I tried to contact him several times. No answer."

"Weird…"

Illya thought back to what Waverly had told them as he had introduced their French contact; "You'll be in good hands, Maxime is one of the most reliable people I know. If you ever call him for help and he doesn't answer, that probably means he's dead.". The last sentence had been meant as a joke, of course. But considering what had happened…

Illya tried to shake off the bad feeling. Drancy had probably gone into hiding for some reason. Just like Gaby…

* * *

 _ **Unknown location, Maxime's p.o.v.**_

* * *

Maxime Drancy cracked his eyes open and groaned. He felt sick and disoriented. His heart began to pound violently as he tried in vain to remember where he was. After a few more seconds, he finally recognized the place, but his heartbeat did not settle. He was no longer shackled to the ceiling but was lying uncomfortably on a steel table. He made an effort to push himself up and whimpered in pain as he rolled off the table. He felt weak and his whole body hurt. He noticed that he no longer had his shirt on. He also noticed that his right wrist was cuffed to one of the legs of the table and that the table was bolted to the floor. He struggled to remember how he had ended up on this table. He had obviously been drugged. And beaten up. That Conor guy had probably had the time of his life. Good thing he could not remember most of it. He looked down at his body and, in addition to a few cuts and bruises, he noticed a bandage over the right side of his ribcage. He carefully touched it with his left hand and couldn't suppress a cry of pain.

 _Merde*… (*shit)_

His ribcage had felt slightly irregular under the bandage. And painful. His ribs were definitely broken. A shard of broken bone had probably punctured his skin, hence the bandage. It definitely was a good thing that he had been completely out of it when it had happened. And at least, his captors had "patched him up".

 _Quelle délicate attention*… (*How thoughtful)_

Truth be told, he was less worried about his physical state than he was about what he had probably revealed to his captors while drugged. He hoped that Alexander's agents were okay. If he had been targeted, maybe they had been attacked, too. He knew his captors had mentioned another prisoner but they had said nothing about that person's identity. He sighed, Alexander would probably be slightly pissed off if he got his whole team killed. Speaking about Alexander, he would definitely think twice now before agreeing to help his old friend. "Maxime, I have one small favour to ask of you…"

 _C'est ça, ouais*… (*yeah, right)_

He sighed again and slowly lowered himself down to a sitting position. He could feel that there was something wrong with his ribcage when he moved his torso and it was making him nauseous. He reclined his head against the side of the table and closed his eyes for a few seconds. His situation really was far from ideal. The others had no way of knowing what had happened to him, and to make things worse, no one from the DST knew what he had been up to. Alexander's "small favour" wasn't exactly an official mission. He had been on (forced) sick leave when his friend had called, and bored out of his mind. A week earlier, he had suddenly felt extremely dizzy and winded, and had almost collapsed during a meeting with his superiors. Something wrong with his heart rhythm, apparently. It had never happened to him before. His superiors had strongly suggested that he should take it easy for a while and his doctor had recommended further tests. Of course he still had his access authorizations but he had been declared unfit for active duty. Yeah…he should probably have told Alexander about that, and apologized for not being able to help. But he hadn't. And here he was. Long story short, he couldn't expect any help from his agency either.

 _Vois les choses du bon côté, Maxime. Au moins c'est pas ton cœur qui te tuera*… (*Look on the bright side, Maxime. At least it's probably not your heart that's going to kill you)_

Without much conviction, he gave the handcuffs a pull to test the chain. Every bit as sturdy as he had expected. He wasn't getting out of here anytime soon. As he racked his tired brain, trying to come up with a brilliant idea, he absentmindedly reached a hand up to his chest, expecting to find his medallion. Then he remembered that it was gone.

 _Merde…_

His heart jumped as the door suddenly opened. He got to his feet as fast as his aching body would allow. The first thought that crossed his mind was "Not Conor…" and he felt a tiny measure of relief – seriously, the young man was a twisted freak – as he realized that it was just the other guy, the one with the beard. Still, Maxime felt his body tense up as the man walked up to him. He looked down at his captor's hands expecting a knife, a gun, or any other instrument that could hurt him, but he was only carrying a cloth bag and a set of keys. Maxime watched tensely as the man set the bag down and used the key to unlock his handcuffs. Then beard-guy spoke in a hushed tone.

"Don't worry, I'll help you get out of here."

 _Ok…je m'attendais pas à ça*… (*well, that was unexpected)_

* * *

 **End of chapter 4.**

 **No animals were harmed in the making of this chapter ;)**

 **Hope you enjoyed the read :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5!**

 ** ** ** **(here are the designs for Maxime Drancy and Conor Reed (made in character creator 3): "https":"/""/""ibb".co"/"album"/"g9a3qa (just remove the ""), I'll add more characters to the album soon :) )********

* * *

 ** _Mountain cabin, Solo's p.o.v._**

* * *

"Your dear colleague Marshall is probably dead now, they never last very long in the cage, you know."

Napoleon struggled to keep a neutral expression despite his concern for his partner. Dasque was sitting in an armchair opposite him, smiling. The only other person in the room was Darroit, who was standing in the corner, near the door. Dasque checked his watch and his smile turned into a grimace as his burned hand brushed against the arm of the chair.

"Aaah putain* (*crap)… I hope the little bastard suffered until the very end. After all, being eaten alive by a pack of hungry wolves must be extremely painful…what do you think, Solo?"

Eaten alive…Napoleon felt his heart sink. The twisted asshole had fed his partner to a pack of wolves! He remembered how they had cut Asher with the knife before taking him away. It all made sense now. He pictured the younger agent bleeding, handcuffed, defenseless. Dasque was right. There was no way he could still be alive. His thoughts were interrupted as he suddenly became aware of a familiar, distant sound. A helicopter. Getting closer. Probably the people Dasque had mentioned before. Dasque had heard it too, of course, and his smile suddenly seemed tense. After a few minutes, the door opened and Ibrac stepped inside the room, closing the door behind him.

"Il est là*/*He's here."

"Il*/*He?"

"Apparemment, y'a qu'un seul homme.*/*Apparently, it's just one man."

Dasque shrugged and shot Napoleon a glance before turning his attention back to Ibrac.

"Et il est passé où cet abruti de Fabre?*/ *And where the hell is Fabre?"

"Je sais pas, il est plus dehors. Il est probablement allé jeter un coup d'oeil dans la cage.*/* I don't know, he's not outside anymore, he probably went to check the cage."

"Je veux tout le monde ici. Darroit, va le chercher. Maintenant!*/*I want everyone here. Darroit, go fetch him. Now!"

As Darroit walked out of the cabin, Napoleon studied his captor's face. Whoever the visitor was, his presence was obviously making the Frenchman _very_ nervous.

"You should have told me you were expecting someone important, I feel like I should have prepared a speech or something."

"I suggest you savor the precious minutes you have left, Solo, things are about to get a lot worse for you."

After another few minutes – which Napoleon did not savor – they heard a knock on the door. It wasn't a particularly loud or insistent knock but everyone in the room seemed to freeze and hold their breath. The door opened and a man appeared, followed by the big American. The visitor was tall, probably in his early forties, perhaps a little older. Short dark hair, pale face. There was nothing special about him but, for some reason he couldn't quite put his finger on, Napoleon noticed that his heart rate had sped up slightly. The man was smiling pleasantly.

"My, my, it's hot in here."

The visitor used a gloved hand to fan himself and casually undid the buttons of his trench coat, then he walked up to Dasque and extended his hand. The Frenchman hesitated for a second before shaking it, as if he was about to put his hand in a basket full of venomous snakes. The man gave him a warm handshake then stepped back but kept his eyes on Dasque's face.

"You seem nervous.", he simply said in a calm, kind voice.

For a few seconds he just stood there, his eyes scanning the room, and lingering on Napoleon before shifting back to Dasque, who cleared his throat a bit too noisily before he spoke.

"Where are your colleagues?"

"They got delayed."

"I see…"

The man had lost interest in Dasque and was now staring intently at Napoleon. He stepped closer to the chair Napoleon was tied to, walked around it to position himself right behind him and gently placed one hand on his shoulder. That simple gesture made Napoleon's already fast pulse quicken even more, and he had to make an effort not to shrug to get the man's hand off his shoulder.

 _Great, another freak…just what I needed…_

"We…we can leave you alone with him, if you want some privacy while you…dispose of him…"

Dasque sounded eager to leave. The man's hand had not moved from Napoleon's shoulder. A few seconds dragged by before the man spoke again.

"That won't be necessary, I'm taking him with me. I'm slightly confused, though… I thought you said you had two prisoners. Napoleon Solo and Asher Marshall."

The man gave Napoleon's shoulder a gentle squeeze as he uttered his name. Napoleon saw Dasque exchange a tense glance with Ibrac.

 _Now things are about to get interesting…_

"Marshall…yes, well he…he's dead. It was an accident."

Napoleon knew that it was probably in his best interest to remain silent but that asshole had killed Asher and if he had an opportunity to make him pay, he sure as hell was going to seize it.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm not sure that putting a handcuffed, defenseless man in a cage with a pack of hungry wolves qualifies as an 'accident'."

Dasque visibly blanched. After a few seconds, the man's hand finally left Napoleon's shoulder and the man started pacing slowly around the room.

"You promised me two prisoners, and one of them is dead…"

The man casually picked up the branding iron, which had been left on the table. Then he resumed his pacing, absentmindedly playing with the branding iron, his face scrunched up, as if in deep thought. He suddenly stopped near the door and Napoleon saw his face light up with a smile.

"That means you owe me one life."

Even as he uttered those words, the man was already swinging the heavy branding iron. The violent blow caught Ibrac in the face.

 _What the…?_

The Frenchman let out a strangled cry as he went down. Then he started screaming. A stunned Napoleon saw the man's smile widen as he patiently followed Ibrac who was trying to crawl away from him. He let him get to the center of the room, then he hit him again, in the back of the head. It took three or four blows before the screaming stopped. The man used his foot to roll Ibrac's limp body over onto its back and raised the branding iron like a golf club. No one moved, no one uttered a word, no one tried to stop him. He swung the iron, hitting the dead man's head as hard as he could. Napoleon suddenly felt something wet spray his face. He looked down and saw that the front of his shirt was splattered with Ibrac's blood. The man set the branding iron down next to Ibrac's body, he rubbed his shoulder and grimaced slightly before pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and walking up to Napoleon's chair. He gently wiped the blood off Napoleon's face. Then turned to Dasque, with the same unnerving smile still pasted on his lips.

"Well this has been pleasant, but I'm afraid we have to leave now."

Dasque looked like he was about to faint with relief. Napoleon felt a jolt of adrenaline course through his body. They were about to leave. That meant they would have to untie him. This was probably the only opportunity he would have of escaping…

The man stepped around the chair, out of sight, and a few seconds passed. Soon, seconds turned into a minute.

 _I thought we were leaving…_

Just as he was about to strain his neck to try and look over his shoulder, Napoleon felt a hand grab him by the hair and pull his head back. Then something was stabbed into his neck. He heard himself gasp in surprise. The hand let go of his hair and came to rest on his shoulder. This time he really tried to get it off. But he simply couldn't. His head felt heavy. His eyelids too. He could feel that his heart was pounding but it felt as if the sound was coming from outside of his body, surrounding him, smothering him. He was about to give in and close his eyes when he heard a voice whisper in his ear.

"You'll be missing one body part when you wake up…can you guess which one?"

Napoleon heard a faint whimper come out of his own mouth and struggled to keep his eyes open as the pounding became faster and louder.

 _N…no…_

* * *

 ** _Tunnels, Asher's p.o.v._**

* * *

"How far are we from the surface?"

Asher thought back to the moment his captors had brought him down to the cage and took a moment to mentally retrace his steps.

"I think there's just one more level."

They took another sharp turn and found themselves in front of a metal gate. Asher tried to pull it open but it did not budge.

 _That wasn't locked before…_

"It's locked…"

His Russian colleague grumbled something inaudible in his native language. He obviously wasn't in the mood for locked gates. Asher watched as Illya pulled as hard as he could to open the gate, then pushed, equally hard. To no avail.

 _I told you it was locked…_

Illya let out an exasperated groan and quickly set his backpack down on the ground. He rummaged through its contents then pulled out a small case, which Asher recognized as Solo's lock-picking tool case.

"Wait, why aren't you using an explosive charge?"

"I used the only one I had to get you out of the cavern."

 _Don't make it sound like it's my fault..._

"But why didn't you…"

The Russian's furious glare dissuaded him from finishing his sentence. Just as Illya was starting to work on the lock, a sudden, loud noise made Asher jump out of his skin.

 _What the hell…?_

Someone was shooting at them. He exchanged a confused glance with Illya.

"That guy...was definitely dead… right?"

Illya nodded impatiently.

 _And it's probably not the wolves, either…_

The only explanation was that someone had used the same access as Illya, probably found the guard's corpse and the cage empty, somehow managed to keep the wolves at bay, and followed them through the tunnels. Another shot rang out, jerking him out of his thoughts.

 _Shit…_

He couldn't see the man and, judging from the accuracy of the shots, the man only had a vague idea of their position – or was a terrible shot. The best course of action was to shoot back. That would make the guy think twice about venturing further down the tunnel and hopefully give them enough time to open the damn gate. He used the dead guard's gun to fire one round in the man's general direction. Almost immediately, the other guy fired back. Asher turned to Illya.

"How much longer is this going to take?"

Illya shot him another furious glare.

"I'm not Solo. You can do it if you think I'm too slow."

Asher hesitated for a second.

"Okay, I'll do it."

He quickly grabbed the tools from an indignant Illya's hands and, a couple of tense minutes and missed shots later, he pulled the gate opened. As Illya quickly followed him through the gate, Asher heard him grumble "Still not as fast as Cowboy…"

The Russian fired another few rounds in the other man's direction to give Asher and himself a head start and they hurried down the tunnel. They quickly reached the final set of rungs that would lead them to the surface and found themselves in a narrow corridor, at the end of which was a door. Unlocked, this time. Asher cracked it open, as silently as possible. They were back in the cabin. He recognized the room where Solo and him had been kept. From what he could see, the room was empty. He quietly opened the door wider and realized his mistake. The room was not empty. Dasque was there. Sitting, slumped in an armchair, looking completely dejected, nursing his burned hand.

 _Someone's having a bad day, apparently…_

Then Asher noticed the dead body on the floor and his heart skipped a beat. The dead man's face was a mess of broken cartilage, torn flesh, and blood, but thankfully, his hair color was too light for him to be Solo. Illya probably hadn't noticed this detail as he barreled past him, noisily flinging the door wide open. Dasque jumped at the sound, then simply stared at them, completely frozen. As the Frenchman's eyes settled on him, Asher could almost see giant question marks sprout above his head. He pointed his gun at Dasque's face, and shot a glance at Illya who was scanning the room, his expression a mixture of disappointment and rage.

 _Someone's day is about to get even worse…_

"Where is my partner?"

Asher let Illya replace him in front of Dasque and closed and bolted the door behind them. That would slow down whoever had been following them in the tunnels.

"Where is my partner?", the Russian repeated, his voice dangerously calm.

Asher saw Dasque shrink back in his armchair and wrap a protective arm around his burned hand.

 _Bad move…_

Illya grabbed the Frenchman's injured hand and pressed hard on the wound, asking for the third time where his partner was. As Dasque started screaming, Asher decided to have a look outside to check if there were any guards left. But just as he was putting his hand on the handle, the door flew open, hitting him in the face. Dropping his gun, Asher staggered backwards, holding his hands to his nose, and looked up to see the big American pointing a gun at his face. He vaguely heard Illya shout "Down!" behind him and ducked a few seconds before a gun went off. The big American dropped to the floor, a bullet hole in his forehead. His Russian partner shot him a "Be careful, would you." look and turned his attention back to Dasque, who had not moved from his armchair and looked even more miserable than before. After a few minutes, though, it became clear that the Frenchman did not know where Solo was. The only information Illya had managed to extract from him was that a 'crazy son of a bitch' had arrived by helicopter to pick up the prisoners and had slaughtered one of his men before drugging Solo and taking him away. The good news was that Solo was probably still alive. The bad news was that he was at the mercy of a dangerous assassin, and since the guy had been traveling by helicopter, Solo was probably already far from here. And they had no way of knowing where he was.

"What are we going to do, now?"

"Kill him.", Illya answered coldly, pointing his gun at Dasque's head.

Asher glanced at the Frenchman's face. Illya had punched him earlier and his nose was bleeding.

"I have a better idea…"

A few moments later, Asher and Illya had left the cabin and were hiking down the mountain. They had tied Dasque's hands behind his back and had left him in the tunnels.

"Unless your wolves figure out how to climb ladders, you should be safe as long as you stay here. Have fun!", Asher had said, before closing and bolting the door again.

Illya had grumbled something about him being too nice and he had not uttered a word since they had left. Asher could understand what was going on in his partner's mind. He, too, was preoccupied. Solo had been taken by an assassin, and Gaby and Drancy had simply disappeared off the face of the Earth. This mission wasn't exactly going the way they had planned…

* * *

 ** _Unknown location, Maxime's p.o.v._**

* * *

"How are the ribs?"

The man had just finished removing Maxime's handcuffs and was pointing at the bandage on his chest.

Maxime did not answer and just stared at him.

"Young Conor got a bit too enthusiastic, I'm afraid, and a small piece of bone broke through your skin. I did what I could to patch you up."

"I don't remember.", Maxime answered curtly, his hand reaching for the bandage.

"I'd say that's a good thing, – don't touch it – I suggested drugging you, to spare you some of the pain. Don't worry.", he added, probably noticing Maxime's worried expression. "What little you gave away, they already knew. Except maybe for the fact that you're particularly fond of 'Piperade*'" (*tomato and pepper based side dish, typical of southwest France).

Maxime felt his cheeks heat up, and his stomach growl. He was hungry. And thirsty too. But at least he was no longer feeling woozy. He tried to ignore the other man's amused smile and decided to cut to the chase.

"Why are you helping me?"

"Well, it's fairly simple. You and I pursue the same goal…more or less."

Maxime frowned. The same goal? What was this guy talking about and exactly how much did he know?

"So, I take it you're an undercover agent? MI6? CIA?"

"Not exactly. I don't work for an agency… not anymore."

"What do you mean "not anymore"?"

"Let's just say I'm more of a freelancer these days."

"I'm not sure I understand…"

"It's okay, you don't need to."

Maxime let out a tired sigh. The man's permanent smile – he was seriously beginning to wonder if the guy's mouth was stuck in that position – and the way he kept dodging his questions were starting to get on his nerves.

"I see… and you expect me to just trust you?"

"You want to get out of here, don't you? …Or you could just stay here. Wait patiently for Conor to come back. He's in a bad mood today and you still have quite a few intact ribs… but I can't guarantee you'll be drugged up next time."

Maxime pretended to hesitate, but he didn't really have a choice. Of course he didn't trust the man, but his priority was to get out of this place, he would worry about the rest later. This was probably his only chance to escape and warn the others. If it wasn't already too late.

"Okay, get me out of here."

"That's the spirit, my friend, now let's hurry, before Conor comes back. Here."

He pulled a clean shirt out of the cloth bag and handed it to him. Maxime was about to reach for the shirt when he suddenly started feeling dizzy. He wondered for a second what was happening to him, but it wasn't long before he figured it out. He could feel his heart fluttering like a damn butterfly inside his chest.

 _C'est pas le moment…* (*Oh come on, not now…)_

Panting, he gripped the side of the table to support himself and waited for the dizziness to pass. The other man watched him curiously for a few seconds, then, without a word, he stepped closer and gently caught hold of his left wrist. After a short while, the symptoms subsided. The man let go of his wrist but Maxime could feel that his gaze was still fixed on him as he put on the shirt.

" You might want to get that checked out… ", he finally said, pointing to Maxime's heart.

Maxime gave him a reluctant nod. Great, now even his captor was giving him health advice…

The man picked up the bag and handed it to him, inside was a gun with a spare magazine and a small bottle of painkillers.

"For the ribs.", the man said, pointing at the bottle. "You should probably take one."

Maxime hesitated. With the effects of the drug wearing off, the pain from his broken ribs was becoming hard to tolerate.

"Don't worry it's not poison. Like I said, I want to help you."

Maxime took two pills from the bottle and swallowed them with difficulty.

"What's this?", he asked, pulling a kraft paper envelope which he had not noticed before out of the bag.

"Don't open it now. It's a little parting gift. You'll thank me later."

Maxime stuffed the "gift" into his pocket and sighed inwardly. The situation was definitely a bit surreal. Who would have thought that a simple information-gathering mission to help out an old friend would take such a weird turn?

"We really should go now."

The man had just checked his watch and his smile had – finally! – vanished, replaced by a worried expression. He opened the door and motioned for Maxime to follow him. They walked down a corridor and reached a staircase. Apparently they were in the basement of a house. It was Maxime's first glimpse of the building where he had been kept, as he had been wearing a hood when his captors had brought him there. They reached the ground floor of a spacious house and navigated a maze of corridors. Maxime noticed that all the rooms they passed were empty, no furniture, no electric lighting, the floor was caked with dust. No one lived in this house. And his captors probably didn't intend to stay here too long, either. The man finally stopped in front of a door.

"As soon as you step out of here, you're on your own. You'll find an old motorcycle behind the shed, the key is in the ignition. Good luck."

 _Comment ça "good luck"? C'est tout? Pas d'autres explications?...*_

 _(*Wait, what do you mean "good luck"? That's it? That's all the information I get?)_

Maxime blurted out a confused "thanks", opened the door and stepped outside.

"Wait…how are you going to explain this to Conor?"

The man smiled.

"Don't worry about that… I know exactly what I'm going to tell Conor. Just make sure he doesn't catch you again. I won't be able to help you next time.", he answered before closing the door.

Maxime heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. Wasting no more time, he hurried toward the shed.

 _D'accord…et donc je suis censé conduire une moto. Avec des côtes en miettes et mon cœur qui déconne…Ça promet…*_

 _(*Right…so, I'm supposed to ride a motorcycle. With my smashed ribs and my messed up heart…This should be interesting…)_

* * *

 **End of chapter 5. I have a feeling that someone's totally not going to last until the end of this story... :P**

 **We'll see :P , I hope you enjoyed the read :)**

 **Thanks for the views/review :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6!**

 **Thank you for the reviews on chapter 5 :)**

 ** ** ** **(here are the designs for Maxime Drancy, Conor Reed, and Antoine Barrère (made in character creator 3): "https":"/""/""ibb".co"/"album"/"g9a3qa (just remove the ""), I'll add more characters to the album soon :) )********

* * *

 _ **Illya's p.o.v.**_

* * *

Illya was pissed off. He was worried, too. But as he drove down the sinuous mountain road in the wee hours of the morning, he chose to focus exclusively on the 'pissed off' part. He was definitely going too fast. Then again, there was no one else on the road at this hour. He took another sharp turn. He was gripping the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles were white. Assholes. The car ran over a deep pothole and he bounced up on his seat, his head hitting the roof. He should have killed Dasque. He would kill them all. He reached the next – particularly sharp – turn way too fast and brutally yanked the steering wheel to the right. He felt Asher's shoulder bump against his, heard a strangled gasp of pain, then the sound of the other agent's head hitting the side window as he was thrown back against the car door. From the corner of his eye, he saw Asher raise a trembling hand to his wounded shoulder. He blew out a sharp sigh and eased up on the gas pedal… slightly. His passenger certainly didn't need to get banged up any further. He sighed again. Now he was veering dangerously close to the 'worried' part. Gaby and Cowboy were gone. How could he have let that happen. And how the hell did the organization keep anticipating their every move? His thoughts drifted back to the events at the cabin. What would have happened if he had not followed the guard down the trap door? If he had not saved Asher. Maybe Cowboy would be sitting in the passenger seat, making smartass comments about his driving skills. Or maybe all three of them would be dead. He shot a quick sideways glance at his passenger and briefly wondered if, given the opportunity, he would readily sacrifice Asher to get his partner back... He shook his head and forced himself to concentrate on his driving instead. But his jaw remained clenched and the fingers of his right hand were now drumming softly against the steering wheel.

* * *

 _ **Saint Savin safe house, Asher's p.o.v.**_

* * *

Asher made a face as he inspected his bite wound in the bathroom mirror. Why did he always have to end up with ridiculous wounds which then turned into ridiculous scars? He stared into his own, tired eyes in the mirror, huffed out a sigh, and resumed cleaning his cuts. After about an hour of silent driving, Illya had finally parked the car in front of their safe house, just outside the tiny village of Saint Savin. They had swept the place for bugs and Asher had quickly retreated to the bathroom. The official reason was that he needed to clean his wounds. The unofficial and actual reason was that Illya looked like he wanted to murder someone and, while he empathized with the Russian's feelings of anger and frustration, Asher didn't want to end up being collateral damage. He had barely survived Illya's wrath back in the car and did not want to push his luck. Of course, he knew he would have to get out eventually – after all, there was little chance that Solo and Gaby would rescue themselves and show up while he was counting his scars in the bathroom – but he had decided to wait for Illya to call Waverly. Talking to his handler would probably cool the Russian off… temporarily at least. Waverly was not going to like what they had to tell him. And Sanders... Sanders would probably order him to commit seppuku to wash away the dishonor he had brought on the CIA, or something along those lines. He finished bandaging his shoulder wound and threw the used, bloody bandage and compresses in the trash can. The dead guard's shirt was hanging over the edge of the bathtub, he threw it a disgusted look before stuffing it into the trash can, too. Then he cautiously opened the door. He could hear Illya talking on the phone. Good. He went to the bedroom to put on a nice, clean, fresh smelling shirt that no one had died in, and headed for the living room to join his partner.

* * *

 _ **MI6 headquarters, Waverly's p.o.v.**_

* * *

Alexander Waverly let out a heavy sigh and hung up the phone. They had clearly underestimated the enemy this time. The organization had known his agents were coming, they had known exactly where they would be staying and they had been waiting for them. But _how_ had they known?... Now two of his agents were missing. And Maxime… No wonder he had been unable to contact him. It really wasn't like Maxime to just disappear when things went south. His friend was probably dead. He shouldn't have got Maxime involved. Of course he had known about his friend's recent health issues. Information gathering was part of his job. That was the reason why he had limited Maxime's involvement to serving as a guide for his team and doing some research work to build on the elements they had already gathered from the notebook. He had only told Maxime what he had thought was necessary for him to know about the mission in France, and now he regretted having kept his friend in the dark concerning the scale and dangerousness of the mission. Of course he had had qualms about putting his friend in harm's way, but he had done it regardless. He had used Maxime. Because that, too, was part of his job. Using assets. Maxime knew the region well, he had grown up there. _And_ he was a good agent. _And_ he had connections that Waverly had known would come in handy for the mission. Maxime had been the perfect contact for his team. And because he had been the perfect choice, Waverly had decided that his friend could handle it. He sighed again.

 _I'm sorry, Max…_

He rubbed his temples tiredly and picked up the phone again to call Adrian Sanders. It was high time they did something about those mysterious information leaks… But first, he would have to explain to Sanders that he had "misplaced" his favorite possession: Solo. At least Marshall was still alive, but he doubted that it would compensate for the loss of Solo.

* * *

 _ **Unknown location**_

* * *

"Does it hurt?"

"Not really. It just feels a bit stiff."

Conor snorted as he watched his partner change into a clean button-up shirt.

"Why do I have to be stuck with an old-timer when I could be teamed up with a sexy young creature. Like Justine Sullivan, for example…"

His partner's lips curled up in an amused smile.

"You just killed Justine Sullivan, remember? At least _I_ can defend myself."

The younger man chuckled.

"Yeah…too bad, she really had a great body…"

"Ah, no offense, Conor, but you never stood a chance."

"How would you know?"

"She couldn't take her eyes off Drancy. Our late colleague Miss Sullivan was clearly into men, not boys."

The young assassin's mouth twisted into a grimace of rage.

"Screw you, Wilfred!", he spat out. "She's dead now, anyway, and that French asshole would be dead, too, if you'd just let me handle it."

"We need him alive."

"So you keep saying. But I still think that letting him escape was a mistake. A mistake which could easily be fixed…"

"We are not killing Drancy. That's final."

"Oh come on! Don't tell me you fancy him, too!"

"Careful, Conor…"

The young assassin opened his mouth to retort but something about his partner's expression made him reconsider.

"My apologies, 'William'…", he finally replied, mocking Wilfred's tone and exaggerated use of his first name.

The other man's eyes remained fixed on his for a few more seconds, then he smiled and finally broke eye contact. Conor was certainly not satisfied with the outcome of the argument but he could tell that that particular conversation was over. And sure enough, a few seconds later, Wilfred was checking his watch and switching to a different topic.

"Weren't you supposed to meet with Shelley?"

"In a few hours. This should be a breath of fresh air, at least Shelley knows what the word "fun" means… But first, I want to know what Drancy is up to. The bastard's clever and I don't want to give him too many opportunities to give us the slip."

Wilfred's smile widened and he clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

"You worry too much, Conor."

* * *

 _ **Unknown location, Solo's p.o.v.**_

* * *

Napoleon opened one eye, then the other. Then immediately closed them both again. Ouch. Too fast. Too bright. Try again. Take your time. After two unsuccessful tries and a lot of blinking, the third time was the charm and he finally managed to keep both eyes relatively open. He had been drugged a few times before, he knew what to expect. But that didn't make the symptoms any less annoying, quite the contrary. Headache, hypersensitivity to light, wooziness and, worst of all: dry mouth. He made a valiant attempt at clearing his thoughts. He was sitting in a comfortable chair. Good. But he could not move. Not so good…

"Ah, you're awake…"

A man suddenly appeared in his peripheral vision and stepped right in front of him. Napoleon recognized him as the assassin who had used Ibrac's head as a golf ball.

"I'm Benjamin Shelley.", the man said, as if it was the greatest accomplishment of his life. Then he extended his hand, but almost immediately pulled it back. "Ooops, silly me…I almost forgot that you no longer have a right hand."

Napoleon's thoughts were still muddled from the drug and it took him a few heart-stopping seconds to realize that he still had both of his hands and that they were simply cuffed to the back bars of the chair he was sitting in. Shelley had obviously noticed the panic in his eyes and was laughing softly.

"Sorry. I just couldn't help myself."

The man walked out of his field of vision but Napoleon could still hear him chuckling to himself.

 _Come on, it wasn't that funny…_

The laughing stopped and Shelley reappeared, he was carrying a chair which he set down opposite – and uncomfortably close to – the one Napoleon was cuffed to. Then he sat down on it and… did nothing. At all. After one – very awkward – minute of complete silence, Shelley suddenly started laughing quietly again.

"Sorry…", he said, giving Napoleon an apologetic smile. "You should have seen the look on your face…"

Napoleon couldn't decide what was bothering him more. The fact that he was cuffed to a chair, at the mercy of a ruthless killer. Or the fact that the man was still laughing at his own stupid joke. The laughter – thankfully? – stopped just as suddenly as it had started, and Shelley's mischievous grin completely disappeared, as if someone had flicked a switch off. The assassin was now silently staring at Napoleon. Seconds dragged by, then minutes. Napoleon was tempted to break the silence but he had witnessed the unfortunate effects of the assassin's unpredictable personality and he definitely didn't want to end up like Ibrac. The situation was gradually becoming painfully awkward and, for the first time in his career, Napoleon found himself wishing that the bad guy would threaten to torture him, tell him how painful his death was going to be… even play another of his stupid jokes. At that point, any type of interaction seemed preferable to the silence and awkward staring contest.

 _Well, maybe not_ any _type…_

As time went by, excruciatingly slowly, and it became clear that Shelley was not going to speak or move anytime soon – or ever again – Napoleon decided that risking a brutal death at the hands of the assassin was better than dying of boredom. He cleared his throat noisily before speaking.

"What are we doing here? If you don't mind my asking…"

Shelley, who had never taken his eyes off him, waited several long seconds before answering.

"Waiting."

The smile was back on his face, his voice was calm, warm, almost kind.

"I see… for anything in particular?"

The assassin took even longer to answer this time. Napoleon felt like he was talking to someone in a different time zone.

"Permission. And my colleagues."

Permission? To do what, kill him? Napoleon waited for him to elaborate but Shelley had apparently used up his word quota.

 _Well, that was remarkably informative…_

Napoleon sighed inwardly. At least he was still alive. The same couldn't be said of poor Asher. His thoughts briefly drifted to Illya and Gaby. Even if they were still alive, the chances that they would come to get him out of this mess were now quasi-nonexistent. That meant he would have to get _himself_ out of this mess. And he didn't have a partner to sacrifice, this time…

"I don't suppose you would let me use the restroom?"

 _Since I'm stuck here, I might as well do some exploring. Maybe I'll find another notebook that Sanders won't thank me for…_

"Of course! I don't see why not."

Shelley looked and sounded like he was genuinely surprised by Napoleon's question. He stood up, stretched, and briefly rubbed his shoulder, just like he had done after killing Ibrac. Then he stepped around the chair Napoleon was sitting in, disappearing behind him. Napoleon heard his footsteps recede, then the sound of a door opening, then more footsteps. Two sets. Just as Shelley was stepping back into his field of vision, he felt a sharp, painful tug on his handcuffs.

"Oh, hey, easy. I would really hate to lose a hand."

Shelley smiled and pulled a Browning out of his shoulder holster. He just kept the gun pointed at the floor, his arm relaxed. He did not even aim it at Napoleon. He didn't need to, the message was clear enough. The handcuffs clicked open and a man, probably a guard, stepped out from behind his chair and placed himself in front of him. Before he could massage his tender wrists or enjoy his relative freedom, the guard cuffed him again, with his hands to the front, this time.

"Shall we?"

Napoleon stood up and followed Shelley out of the room. He didn't really have a plan – at all – but it felt good to stretch his legs after all the time he had spent sitting in that chair. As they walked along the spacious corridors of what appeared to be some kind of mansion, Napoleon tried to take in as much information as his brain could store. What seemed insignificant now might prove useful when the time came to plan his escape. _If_ the time ever came. He shot a sideways glance at his captor. Shelley was walking next to him. Not behind him. He was still pointing his gun at the floor, nonchalantly. Either the man was completely reckless, or he was extremely confident in his ability to overpower his prisoner, should the need arise. Considering what had happened to Ibrac, Napoleon was strongly leaning toward the second possibility.

"Here's the bathroom."

As Shelley opened the door for him, Napoleon briefly entertained the idea of pouncing on him and grabbing the gun. But something about the man's demeanor was telling him that Shelley was expecting it and that it would not end well for him. Instead, he gave the assassin a polite smile, stepped into the room and turned around, waiting for his captor to close the door. Shelley did not move.

"Thank you", Napoleon said as he attempted to close the door himself. This time, Shelley did move. He raised his hand to block the door, stepped into the bathroom, then closed the door. He took a few steps until he was, once again, uncomfortably close to Napoleon. Then he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, and just stood there, smiling.

 _Great… And here I thought it couldn't get more awkward than the hour-long staring contest…_

* * *

 _ **Lake of Payolle safe house, Maxime's p.o.v.**_

* * *

Maxime felt relief wash over him as he finally spotted the lake. It had taken him a good two hours to reach the safe house. He had found it surprisingly hard to find his bearings once he had left the – almost – abandoned house where he had been held prisoner. Maxime had been born in Paris but he had lived in Tarbes* (*Tarbes is a town in the Pyrenees region) for most of his childhood and teenage years, which meant that he knew the region well, all the tiny villages and roads, the mountain trails… But, as luck would have it, he hadn't been familiar with that particular area. The fact that he had been trying to avoid the main road had not helped either. But being momentarily lost was better than running the risk of getting captured again. After he had put what seemed like a reasonable distance between the house and himself, he had made a first stop to get rid of everything his mysterious "savior" had given him. Well, almost everything, he had taken another two pills from the bottle to numb the pain in his ribs. He had been reluctant to discard the gun but he simply didn't have the time to disassemble it and check for trackers. He had taken the shirt off and had thoroughly inspected it before putting it back on. He had pulled the envelope out of his pocket and thrown it away, only keeping the folded note it contained. After careful inspection he had found nothing suspicious. Only a series of numbers and letters, and one word: "solo". As in Napoleon Solo? He had stuffed the note back into his pocket. He would have plenty of time to figure it out later. Hopefully. Not long after, he had made his second stop to ditch the motorcycle. He had "borrowed" the first unlocked car he had found, the same car which he was now parking just a little way away from the safe house. As he stepped through the door of the lake house, he suddenly became aware of how exhausted he felt. The prospect of a peaceful nap had never seemed so inviting. But he knew the nap would have to wait. He had a few telephone calls to make, and first on his list was the DST agent who had supplied him with the information about the enemy base… and sent him straight into an ambush. After his meeting with Alexander's agents, he had decided to check out the place. All he had found was an old, abandoned building with no one in it. No one except Conor and that woman – Justine? – who had obviously been waiting for him. He grabbed the phone off the coffee table and sat down on the couch. He dialed the number and did not even give his interlocutor the chance to speak.

"Lacroix ? C'est Drancy. Dis-moi, les coordonnées que tu m'as transmises l'autre jour,…*/* Lacroix ? It's Drancy. Tell me, the coordinates you gave me the other day,…"

He abruptly stopped, mid-sentence. Something was wrong. The person at the other end of the line had not uttered a single word. Even now that he had stopped talking, all he could hear was silence. After a few seconds, a weird clicking noise sounded through the phone, then a stranger's voice. English.

"Yes, what about those coordinates, Mr. Drancy? Did you find anything interesting? And, more importantly…did you appreciate the warm welcome?"

The man's tone was cold, mocking, and his words sent a chill down Maxime's spine. But it was what he heard next which really sent his heart racing – for a good reason, this time.

"Oui, Drancy, je suis curieux de savoir… Qu'avez-vous donc découvert à propos de _nous_?* /* Yes, Drancy, I'm dying to know… What did you find out about _us_?"

That voice he did recognize. He took orders from that voice. Maxime hung up the phone immediately, dropping the receiver back on its base as if it had just burned his hand. Unless his ears were playing tricks on him, or the enemy hired particularly talented impersonators, the man at the other end of the line had been Rolland Cordier. His superior.

 _Merde…*(*Shit…)_

His gaze still fixed on the phone, Maxime ran a nervous hand through his messy hair. This was a twist he certainly could have done without. If his boss was part of the organization, who else from the DST was involved? Just how far up the hierarchy did the corruption extend? In other words, just how screwed was he? He thought about the list of names Alexander had asked him to find information about. Maxime had memorized every single name on that list. They were aliases, of course, but, given the time, with his resources and connections he probably could have dug up something interesting about a few of those people. Now he was just wondering how many of his colleagues were on that list…

As he tried to wrap his head around the implications of what he had just discovered, his hand automatically reached up to his open shirt collar and, for the second time, he was dismayed to find his medallion missing. It was a gift from his former partner and friend who had been killed on a mission a few months before. He wore it as a memento, and a good luck charm.

 _Dommage, j'en aurais bien besoin, d'un coup de bol, tiens…* (*Too bad, I could certainly use some good luck, right now…)_

He sighed and picked up the phone again. He needed to speak with Alexander. He direct dialed the number and his friend picked up right away. He gave his identification code and waited for Alexander to speak. But he didn't. Instead Maxime heard that weird clicking noise again, just before his interlocutor hung up on him. His heart began to race again.

 _Oh merde, c'est pas bon ça…* (* Crap, that's not good…)_

He drew a long, shaky breath, trying to ignore the insistent pounding of his heart, and thought for a second. There was a portable radio in one of the cabinets in the bedroom. He wouldn't be able to call Alexander himself, but maybe he would manage to contact Alexander's agents. He got up from the couch, grimacing at the pain and weird sensation in his broken ribs, and took a few steps… before stopping and placing a trembling palm against his chest. The room started spinning and he had to grab the wall with his other hand to steady himself. Great. As if he didn't have enough on his plate already. He tried to breathe evenly as he waited for the symptoms to pass. It rapidly became clear that it was not going to happen anytime soon. His hand still clutching his chest, Maxime stumbled backwards and let himself drop back down onto the couch. It felt as if a fish was flopping around in his chest cavity. He could tell that this episode was worse than the previous ones. He needed help. The hospital was in Bagnères-de-Bigorre, thirteen miles away. He couldn't drive. And with Conor and his boss out to get him, going to a hospital probably wasn't a good idea, anyway. But dying didn't sound like such a great idea, either.

 _Merde…*(*Shit…)_

He hesitated for a split-second, then grabbed the phone and dialed a number as fast as his shaking hands would allow. Hopefully this call would come through…

 _S'il te plaît, décroche…* (*Please pick up the phone…)_

After a few tense seconds, he finally heard a familiar voice at the other end of the line.

"Antoine, j'ai…j'ai besoin de toi. */*Antoine, I…I need your help."

 _\- Max ? Qu'est-ce qui se passe ? Ça va ?*_ / _*Max? What's going on? Are you okay?_

"Non…je crois que mon palpitant va exploser… * /*No…I think my ticker's about to explode…"

 _\- D'accord. Reste calme, ça va aller. Tu es chez toi? *_ / _*Okay. Stay calm, you're going to be okay. Are you home?_

"Non… à la maison du lac…* /* No… the lake house…"

He was being vague on purpose. Considering what had happened during his previous phone calls, an extra helping of caution certainly wouldn't hurt. Besides, he knew that his friend did not need any more details; Antoine and him had spent so many summer days playing in front of that house by the lake when they were kids.

 _\- D'accord, détend toi, fais-toi un bon bain de pieds, j'arrive*._ / _* Okay, just relax, take a nice herbal footbath, I'll be there in no time._

"Ok…je laisse ouvert… * /*Okay…door's unlocked…"

Maxime hung up the telephone and he carefully lay down on the couch, hoping that if he stopped moving completely, the dizziness would pass and his heart rate would settle. Fat chance…

 _Merde, je vais mourir…* (*Crap, I'm going to die…)_

* * *

 **End of chapter 6**

 **I hope you enjoyed the read :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7! :)**

 ** ** ** **(here are the designs for Maxime Drancy, Conor Reed, Benjamin Shelley, and Antoine Barrère (made in character creator 3): "https":"/""/""ibb".co"/"album"/"g9a3qa (just remove the ""), I'll add more characters to the album soon :) )********

* * *

 _ **Unknown location, Solo's p.o.v.**_

* * *

Napoleon was in the process of counting the ceiling tiles when he heard the door open behind him. He had already done the floor tiles, the flowers on the wallpaper border, and those on the curtains. His brief excursion to the bathroom had been unfruitful, to say the least. After yet another painfully awkward episode, Shelley had brought him back here and had left almost immediately. As the footsteps grew closer, he almost sighed in relief. Torture by boredom was surprisingly efficient. Shelley walked up to the empty chair in front of him and sat down. He was smiling. His trademark mischievous smile.

"I have good news. My employers authorized your execution."

 _Wonderful news, indeed…_

"This means we can get started soon."

"Get started?"

"See, this property is surrounded by several acres of woods which serve as a nice hunting ground."

Napoleon felt his pulse quicken slightly. He did not know where Shelley was going with this, but he had a feeling that he was not going to like it. At all.

"I see…what kind of game do you hunt?"

"You."

 _I walked right into that one, didn't I…_

"The rules are simple. Your goal is to get to the edge of the woods, the perimeter is heavily guarded, of course. My goal is to hunt you down and capture you. What do you think?"

Napoleon felt his brows knit together.

 _I think you have too much time on your hands…_

"I must admit it sounds absolutely thrilling. What's the prize if I win?"

"You get to choose the way you die. Now if you lose…well, _I_ get to let my creativity run wild. My employers didn't give me a deadline, so we have plenty of time ahead of us..."

 _Well…it does seem like a reasonable deal…except for the 'hunting down/death/torture' part…_

Suddenly, the prospect of sitting still in a chair for hours, counting ceiling tiles, didn't seem so terrible. Shelley, who had been staring at him the whole time, did not fail to notice his concerned expression.

"Sorry, I can't let you live, even if you win. Orders, you know…"

He didn't look sorry. He looked eager.

"Now, since you're a bit younger and fitter than I am, you will play with a handicap."

"Oh, don't be so hard on yourself, you're in pretty good shape for your age."

Shelley smiled and remained silent.

 _Great, he's stuck again…_

"What kind of handicap are we talking about?", Napoleon asked, hoping to get the assassin talking again.

"You'll find out soon enough."

 _Who doesn't love surprises…_

"And what if I refuse to play?"

"I'm sure I can find a way to convince you. After all, you don't need _all_ of your fingers to play this game…"

First his right hand, and now his fingers. Apparently, the guy was dead set on chopping off body parts. Shelley got up from his chair and started pacing around the room, deliberately stepping out of Napoleon's field of vision.

"Fair enough. I think I'd rather keep the fingers."

Napoleon had tried to keep his tone nonchalant, but his cuffed hands were balled into tight fists and his heart was racing with the fear that Shelley might suddenly rip off one of his fingers. Just to make his point.

"Good. Oh, by the way, do you need to use the restroom again before we start?"

Shelley had reappeared and was staring at him with a sly smile.

 _Not a chance, pal…_

"Oh no, don't worry about me, I'm sure I will find a convenient spot in the woods, if the need arises."

The assassin shrugged, but his smile did not disappear.

"It's your call. Now let's get you ready. My colleagues will be here soon."

* * *

 _ **Lake of Payolle safe house, Maxime's p.o.v.**_

* * *

"Ton rythme cardiaque est revenu à la normale…*/* Your heart rate is back to normal…"

"Super… */*Great…"

"Ça veut pas dire que t'es tiré d'affaire, Max.*/* That doesn't mean you're out of the woods, Max."

"Je sais. */ *I know."

Maxime gently pushed the hand holding the stethoscope away, then pushed himself up to a sitting position. It had taken a shock from his friend's portable defibrillator to restore his normal heart rhythm.

"Et ça, on en parle ? Tu t'es battu avec un ours ? */*Are we going to talk about those? Did you run into a bear or something?", Antoine said, gesturing at the bruises on his torso and the bandage over his ribs. "T'étais pas censé y aller mollo pendant quelques temps ? */ *I thought you were supposed to take it easy for a while."

Maxime gave him a sheepish look and placed a protective hand over the bandage. He did not want his friend to see what was underneath. Antoine Barrère was a doctor, not an agent. He knew nothing about the DST, international criminal organizations, or sadistic assassins. He was a good man, honest, with a kind heart. And he was Maxime's childhood friend. Maxime didn't want him involved in this mess.

"C'est un peu compliqué en ce moment…*/* Things are a bit complicated right now…"

"Ouais, ben compliqué ou pas, je t'emmène à l'hôpital…*/*Yeah, well, in any case, I'm taking you to the hospital."

Maxime sighed inwardly. Antoine was a good man, but he could also be an extremely stubborn man. Especially when he was right. He knew that his friend was not going to like his answer, but he wanted him out of here as soon as possible.

"Je peux pas, Antoine… Merci pour ton aide.*/*I can't, Antoine… Thank you for your help."

He grabbed his shirt, put it back on without rebuttoning it, and rose – somewhat unsteadily – from the couch, hoping that his friend would follow. Antoine did not budge.

"Comment ça, tu 'peux pas'? */* What do you mean, you 'can't'?"

Antoine was watching him with incredulous eyes.

"J'ai quelque chose à régler d'abord… */* There's something I need to take care of first…"

"Régler quoi ? Ton testament ? Putain, Maxime, arrête de faire le con. Pas besoin d'être un putain de cardiologue pour se rendre compte que c'est sérieux!*/*Take care of what? Your will? Dammit, Maxime, be reasonable, for once. You don't have to be a freaking cardiologist to understand that this is bad!"

"J'irai demain. C'est promis. */* I'll go tomorrow. I promise.", Maxime answered, hoping that his pleading eyes and placating tone would do the trick.

Antoine stared at him silently. He was probably trying to decide whether he was physically strong enough to knock his friend out, shove his unconscious butt into his car, and drive him to the hospital.

 _Désolé mon pote, mais même avec_ _mon cœur en carafe, tu n'as aucune chance…* (*Sorry buddy, but even with my bad heart, you don't stand a chance…)_

Antoine, who had apparently reached the same conclusion, shook his head and finally stood up.

"Très bien. Mais pas la peine de m'appeler la prochaine fois que ton cœur fait des siennes. */* Fine. But don't bother calling me if your heart starts acting up again."

He angrily stuffed his stethoscope into his medical bag and stormed out of the living room, straight to the front door. He grabbed the handle, and seemed to hesitate. After a second or two, he blew out a sigh and turned around, the anger in his eyes had given way to concern.

"Écoute, Max, je sais pas ce que tu magouilles, mais au moindre problème, rythme cardiaque bizarre, douleur dans la poitrine, difficultés à respirer, tu m'appelles, hein? Sans hésitation. */* Look, Max, I don't know what you're up to, but if anything starts feeling wrong again, erratic heart rate, chest pain, shortness of breath, you call me, okay? You don't hesitate."

Maxime nodded.

"Demain, hein? */* Tomorrow, then, right?"

Maxime nodded a second time.

"Demain. */* Tomorrow."

His friend shot him one last look of profound exasperation – topped with a generous dollop of concern – before stepping outside and heading for his car. Maxime closed the door and sighed in relief. He went straight to the bedroom. He tried not to walk too fast, worried that he might trigger another episode by increasing his heart rate. Great, now it felt as if he had a ticking time-bomb in his chest. He opened the cabinet and grabbed the radio transmitter. Hopefully he would manage to get a hold of one of Alexander's agents.

* * *

 _ **Lake of Payolle**_

* * *

"Stop playing with that thing, Conor, we don't want any accidents."

"Relax, old man, it's not even on."

Conor brandished the small remote he had been toying with in front of his partner's face.

"It _is_ on."

The young assassin inspected the remote and flicked the tiny switch on its bottom.

"And so what?" he grumbled "It wouldn't be such a big loss, would it? And it doesn't sound like he's going to last very long, anyway."

"You just don't listen, do you, Conor? Right now, Drancy is more useful to us alive than dead. You can kill him once our goal is achieved."

"Yeah, like your stupid plan is going to work…"

Wilfred smiled patiently.

"We were given orders. Like it or not, completing the assignment is our priority. You're not going to throw a tantrum, are you?"

"Yeah, because _you_ always follow orders, right, old man?"

With disconcerting speed, Wilfred snatched the remote out of Conor's hands and slipped it into the surprised young man's breast pocket. Then he gave him one light pat on the chest. Conor glared at his partner but did not pull the remote out again. He could tell this was his first warning.

"Here comes the doctor again."

Wilfred had turned his attention back to the lake house. Drancy's friend had just stepped outside the front door and was heading toward his car.

"He seems like a nice guy, doesn't he? I would love to get to know him…"

"Conor…"

Second warning.

"You should probably get going, anyway.", Wilfred added as he checked his watch. "We're on a tight schedule. I'll let you know if my "stupid plan" works out. That way you can warn Shelley. Oh, and about Shelley, don't forget…"

"I know!"

Conor reluctantly took off his headset and handed it to Wilfred. Then he grabbed his backpack and checked its contents one last time to make sure that what Shelley had requested was in there. Shelley was generally more fun to be around than his partner, unless you fucked up. If you fucked up, you were dead. Everything was in order. Good. As he watched the doctor's car disappear down the winding road, the young assassin fished the remote out of his breast pocket and let it drop into the backpack. His gaze settled on the spare explosive charges, next to Shelley's package, and a smile slowly formed on his lips. He zipped his backpack closed, stood up, nodded at Wilfred and set out through the woods, toward the spot where they had parked their cars.

* * *

 _ **An hour later, lake of Payolle safe house, Maxime's p.o.v.**_

* * *

Maxime popped some painkillers into his mouth and chased them down with water. He hurriedly grabbed a clean shirt from the bedroom closet. He also grabbed a holster and a gun. That would definitely come in handy for what he was about to do. What _they_ were about to do. He had finally managed to contact Alexander's team – well what was left of it, anyway – after two unsuccessful tries. The tension and subsequent relief had been so intense that he had briefly wondered if his faulty heart could take it. Kuryakin and Marshall were alive. He was not on his own. Which meant that he was significantly less screwed than before. He had given Kuryakin a brief account of what had happened to him after their meeting: the ambush, how he had been captured, tortured and drugged, how beard-guy had helped him escape… Then it had been Kuryakin's turn to fill him in on what had happened to the rest of the team. When the Russian had mentioned that Miss Teller and Solo were missing, Maxime had suddenly remembered two things: the other prisoner that Conor and beard-guy had mentioned and the mysterious note in his pocket. Numbers and letters, and the word "solo". He had pulled the note out of his pocket and one look had been enough for him to solve the riddle. It had seemed so obvious once he had been provided with a context. Coordinates. Beard-guy's parting gift was a chance to save Solo's life. Or rush headfirst into a deadly trap. It was probably the latter. As far as he was concerned, it was _definitely_ the latter. But there was no stopping Kuryakin. It had been decided that Maxime would take Marshall to the place where he had been held prisoner. He very much doubted that his captors would still be there, but it was the only lead they had. Perhaps Marshall and him would still be able to find at least some clues about Miss Teller's whereabouts. At least, if the mysterious prisoner had indeed been Miss Teller, there was a chance that she was still alive. Beard-guy had insisted several times on the fact that Conor and him needed to keep both prisoners alive. In the meantime, Kuryakin would go looking for Solo. The Russian was apparently more than willing to risk his own life on the off-chance that he might be able to rescue his partner. Solo was probably dead. But Maxime couldn't blame Kuryakin. It reminded him of his own, former partner. Thomas Réant. During the years they had worked together, Thomas and him had always had each other's back. Now Thomas was dead and Maxime couldn't help but wonder if his death had something to do with the organization… He had not mentioned anything about Rolland Cordier, or his concerns that other DST agents might be in cahoots with the organization. He would personally talk to Alexander once he found a safe way to contact him. He tiredly ran his hand through his hair. Lack of sleep combined with the beatings, the effects of the drug, and his frightening cardiac episode had left him exhausted. But, once again, the nap would have to wait. Kuryakin was probably already on his way and Maxime was supposed to meet with Marshall in Argelès-Gazost* (*town in the Pyrenees region) in two hours. If he could get there that fast. Driving was certainly the last thing he should do, but he wasn't going to just sit around while Kuryakin and Marshall risked their lives to rescue their partners and take down that damn organization.

 _Antoine me ferait la peau si il savait...*/* Antoine would probably kill me if he knew…_

* * *

 _ **Calais, France, Waverly's p.o.v.**_

* * *

Waverly's pulse began to race in anticipation as the helicopter started its descent. He looked out the small window. The morning sun was still low in the sky. He could make out warehouses in the distance. One of them was their target destination. Who knew what they would find in there… Not long after Kuryakin had contacted him, Waverly had received a coded distress message from Maxime. Initially, he had been relieved to know that his friend was alive, but something about the message hadn't felt quite right. Apparently, Maxime had been attacked on his way back from the meeting with his team. He had barely managed to escape and had gone into hiding. That part explained why they had been unable to contact him. Maxime also mentioned that he had discovered crucial information about the organization and that he needed to meet with him urgently. The message contained many – too many? – details about the mission which only Maxime could have known about. Or which someone could have tortured out of him… It ended with coordinates. A disaffected industrial zone in Calais. Calais made sense; in addition to being as far away from the South – and from the people who were looking for him – as possible, it was also close to England. But why this particular area instead of a public place? It was the perfect spot for an ambush. Part of him wanted to believe that his friend was alive and had sent the message. But he knew that there was a significant chance that the whole thing was a trap. Consequently, he had taken no chances and had brought a full team of his men – complete with explosives experts – to the meeting. The helicopter finally landed in a wasteland bordering the industrial zone, and his men spread out to search the area. A few minutes later, they were closing in on the warehouse. The area surrounding the dilapidated building was completely deserted. If there was a trap, it was probably waiting for them inside. He watched as the explosives experts thoroughly inspected the door and the outside of the building. Nothing.

 _So far, so good…_

One by one, his men disappeared inside. He hesitated for a few seconds, then followed them, ignoring their silent advice to stay back. He needed to know what was inside. Darkness. Mostly darkness. The only light was the one filtering through a few scattered holes in the ceiling. It took a few seconds for his vision to adapt to the sudden change. Then he saw it. At the far end of the warehouse. An armchair. It looked so out of place that Waverly felt his already racing pulse quicken even more. He stepped closer and strained his eyes to make out details. It was one of those high-back chairs, the type where, if it was facing away from you, you could only see the top of the head of the person sitting in it. And someone _was_ sitting in it. Messy hair. A sudden feeling of dread gripped him. Something about the whole situation felt horribly wrong. It _was_ a trap, he was sure of it now. His instincts were screaming at him to get his team and himself out of there. _Fast_. Before he could stop them, two of his men stepped around the chair and entered what he supposed was the individual's field of vision. The man on the chair did not move. Waverly held his breath as one of his men – a young explosives expert – reached for the man's neck, probably checking for a pulse. He saw the young agent shake his head. This, he had been expecting. What he had not been expecting, however, was the sudden, violent, ear-shattering noise… and the whole building flipping upside down.

* * *

 **End of chapter 7.**

 **The trap is slowly closing (veeeery slowly -_-)**

 **Guess who's in trouble... :P**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8! Everybody is in trouble. Everybody. :P**

 ** ** ** **(here are the designs for Maxime Drancy, Thomas Réant, Conor Reed, Benjamin Shelley, and Antoine Barrère (made in character creator 3): "https":"/""/""ibb".co"/"album"/"g9a3qa (just remove the ""), I'll add more characters to the album soon :) )********

* * *

 _ **Unknown location**_

* * *

"So, tell me, young Mr. Reed, how is your poetry-loving partner?"

"Poetry?"

Conor frowned and Shelley gave a small laugh as he noticed his confused expression.

"Never mind, you'll figure it out when you're older… and smarter. So, from what I understand, we're expecting another player?"

"Yeah, it shouldn't take him too long to get here.", Conor grumbled as he scraped some coagulated blood from under his fingernails. He glanced as his watch. He was behind schedule. His little detour on the way to the meeting with Shelley had cost him some time. But it had definitely been worth it.

"You missed a spot."

Shelley was pointing at his right cheek. He rubbed at the spot and felt the dried blood flake off. Shelley gave him a thumbs up.

"Still no news from Miss Sullivan and Lacroix? I thought they would be joining us…"

"No. Nothing. It's like they vanished off the face of the earth."

"Hmm. Maybe they eloped."

Conor snorted.

"Highly unlikely. Lacroix was way too ugly to be screwing Justine."

" _Was_? Interesting… I take it his looks have improved, then?"

Conor cursed inwardly, furious with himself for the blunder.

"I wouldn't know. Like I said, I haven't seen him in a while."

He looked away but he could feel Shelley's insistent gaze still fixed on him. A few awkward seconds passed in silence.

"Did you bring it?"

The young assassin almost sighed in relief, welcoming the change of topic. He set his backpack down, pulled out the small package and handed it to Shelley. It contained two tiny dart syringes. Both full.

"Perfect."

He loaded one dart into his rifle and held it out in front of Conor.

"Would you like to take the shot?"

Conor glanced at his watch again. Wilfred would murder him if he was late.

"I'm late already. And I would hate to steal your 'quarry'…"

"Nonsense. I don't mind at all. You're a better shot than I am. Hell, you're a better shot than anyone of us. Besides, I think I pulled a muscle earlier, playing golf.", Shelley added, wincing and rubbing his shoulder.

Conor hesitated, then he felt a smile form on his lips and he took the rifle from Shelley's hands. Screw Wilfred. He could always borrow the helicopter. And then he would kill Drancy. Hopefully the guy's heart would hold up until then.

"Here he comes."

Conor shouldered the rifle. The vantage point was perfect. Solo was crossing the last open area before entering the woods. He took one deep breath, exhaled slightly, held his breath... and pulled the trigger.

Shelley whistled.

"Nice."

'Nice' was an understatement, it was a perfect shot. He had aimed for the right shoulder. He had hit the right shoulder. He rarely missed his target.

"Our friend is in for a real treat… I wonder how far he will manage to go."

Conor shrugged, he had enjoyed taking the shot, but what happened to Solo next was of little interest to him. He had his own 'quarry' to take care of. He just had one more little thing to accomplish before he could leave…

* * *

 _ **Unknown location**_

* * *

"I hope you have some good news to give me."

"Sorry Sir, we're not getting anywhere. He won't tell us anything. If I didn't know otherwise, I would think he doesn't know anything."

"Hmm, he was always a stubborn one. There _is_ one thing you haven't tried yet…"

"Are you sure you want to take that risk, Sir? He's the only one who knows where it is. If he dies…"

"I think he can take it. N'est-ce pas, mon garçon?... Tu souffres terriblement, hein. Est-ce que ça vaut vraiment la peine d'endurer toute cette souffrance, Tom? */* Can't you, son?... You're in an awful lot of pain, aren't you. Is it really worth all this suffering, Tom?"

* * *

 _ **MI6 headquarters, Waverly's p.o.v.**_

* * *

Waverly put the receiver down, grimacing at the pain in his sprained wrist. He had just had a long conversation with Sanders who was busy supervising a secret internal inquiry to identify the source of the information leaks. After what had happened at the warehouse, he had felt the need to warn Adrian. Someone had tried to kill him and there was a possibility that they would target Sanders too. The explosion at the warehouse had killed two of his men, including the young explosives expert. Three others had been seriously injured. He had been lucky he had not been standing too close and had only sustained a wrist sprain when he had been thrown to the ground by the blast. After making sure that he was still in one piece, he had rushed to help the survivors. He had tried to talk to one of his injured men before he was taken to the hospital. The man was in shock and kept repeating the same thing over and over again: "It was inside him…" According to the one agent who had been facing the chair and had survived, the man in the chair had been bare-chested and the agent had noticed a long, sutured incision running from his sternum to his lower abdomen. Someone had sliced him open and stitched him up. But first, they had implanted a deadly little surprise inside his body. The only 'positive' point was that the man had not been Maxime. That did not ease the guilt he felt over the deaths of his men. And it did not mean that Maxime was alive. In fact, it strongly suggested the contrary. The bomb had been remotely detonated, which meant that whoever had pressed the button had been there with them. Somewhere near the warehouse. In Calais. Those bloody bastards were everywhere. And they were _very_ well-informed. He had sent poor Maxime into the lion's den. At least Kuryakin and Marshall knew what they were up against.

* * *

 _ **Unknown location, Illya's p.o.v.**_

* * *

Something felt off. Of course, he knew that the note Drancy had been given was most likely meant to lure them into a trap. The trick was to identify the trap and thwart it. But he had to admit that, so far, he had done very little identifying, and even less thwarting. He had ended up in the middle of a thick forest, and as he strode deeper and deeper into the woods, he kept expecting to find Cowboy's dead body hanging from a tree. Apparently, he had to cross the woods to reach his target destination. Before entering the forest, he had spotted the roof of what seemed to be some kind of mansion, poking out above the trees. Hopefully Cowboy was in there, maybe in pretty bad shape. Probably in pretty bad shape. It didn't matter, as long as he was alive, the rest could be fixed. Death couldn't. He hadn't encountered any hostiles since he had entered the forest. Either the security perimeter did not extend that far around the mansion. Or the guards had intentionally been removed to let him through and guide him right where they wanted him to be. He would have to be extremely careful once he got to the huge clearing where the mansion stood. As he walked, he couldn't help but wonder how Asher and Drancy were faring. Asher and him had tried to contact Waverly before leaving, to let him know that Drancy was alive, but they had been unable to get a hold of their boss. People had an annoying tendency to disappear off the face of the earth lately, like Gaby… He suddenly froze and a surge of adrenaline made his heart pump faster. Apparently, not all the guards had gotten the memo. He silently crouched down behind a tree and peered into the semi-obscurity of the forest. Then he heard it again. The subtle rustling of leaves. That wasn't the wind. Hopefully it wasn't a wolf either, or a boar… Keeping low, he got around the big bushes to his left as quietly as possible.

 _There you are…_

Not a wolf, not a boar. A man. Just one man. Facing away from him. Apparently absorbed in some task that Illya could not identify from where he was standing. Easy kill. He slipped his gun into his holster. He did not want to use it and risk alerting other guards. Determined to use the element of surprise, he quickly closed the distance between him and the man and suddenly grabbed him in a chokehold. The man recovered remarkably fast from his surprise and started struggling. He was obviously trained in hand to hand combat and was putting up a good fight. But once the choke was in, there really wasn't much you could do. Illya tightened the choke and pulled him to the ground, trapping his opponent's legs with his own. The whole maneuver had only lasted a few seconds. It wouldn't take much longer before his opponent went to sleep, or before he crushed his windpipe. The man, who had grabbed his forearm to try and loosen the chokehold, suddenly did something he had not been expecting. He pulled hard on Illya's sleeve and started tapping the watch on his wrist.

"I…Illya…"

He let go immediately and cursed a little too loudly in Russian as Cowboy sat up, gasping and rubbing his throat.

"Aaah...Sorry, Peril…I didn't mean to attack your forearm with my throat..."

"What are you doing here."

"And I'm glad to see you, too... I was relieving myself behind those bushes, if you must know."

"We thought you had been taken by an assassin. We thought you might be dead."

"And when you realized it wasn't the case you decided to take the matter into your own hands? Good thing I recognized your watch. Boy am I glad I got it back for you, it just saved my life."

 _For the second time..._

Solo looked unharmed but Illya noticed that his partner's gaze kept darting in every direction. He seemed nervous and sweat was running down his forehead.

"We need to keep moving. See, I didn't exactly escape. He released me. To hunt me down."

"Who?"

"The assassin, Shelley. This is his 'hunting ground'. He's one remarkably creepy individual. And apparently, he likes chopping off body parts. I'd rather he didn't find me…"

Illya felt his jaw clench. He unholstered his gun and scanned the forest around them.

"How did _you_ get here, anyway? Shelley told me that the edge of the woods was heavily guarded…"

"There was no one except you, Cowboy."

"Well, congratulations, Peril, you just casually strolled straight into a trap."

"I know.", Illya growled. "I was trying to rescue you. Maybe it was a mistake."

"Don't get me wrong, Peril, your dedication touches my heart. But I hope you also have a solid plan to get us out of here."

Illya raised the gun.

"I have this. It should be enough."

"Let's hope so…"

Illya studied his partner's face. Was it his imagination or was Cowboy looking a little pale?

"You okay, Cowboy?"

"Don't worry…it would take more than your weak chokehold to kill me. Let's go, shall we?"

As they cautiously made their way through the forest, they filled each other in on what had happened since the attack.

"How did you escape Dasque and his men?"

"I was outside when they attacked. I saw them take you and Asher."

"Hmm…about Asher…"

"He's alive. I saved him."

The surprised expression on Cowboy's face slowly turned into a smile.

"Of course you did… Did you choke him, too?"

Illya smiled despite himself. He had missed Solo's smart-ass quips.

"Where is he, anyway? And Gaby?"

Illya felt his smile disappear. He briefly explained what had happened to Drancy and how Asher and the French agent had gone looking for Gaby. As they walked, he kept shooting sideways glances at Solo. His partner was tugging at his shirt collar. He looked uncomfortable... almost as if he was in pain. Illya was about to ask him what was wrong when Solo abruptly stopped walking and started unbuttoning his shirt.

"What are you doing, Cowboy?"

"My shirt… it rubs on my skin and it's painful. I think I might have a rash or something."

As Solo took off his shirt, Illya stepped closer and inspected the skin on his partner's back and chest.

"I don't see anything."

He frowned and studied Cowboy's face again. He looked even paler than before and was still sweating profusely. As they started walking again, it became clear that Solo had no intention of putting the shirt back on. Illya was pondering his partner's strange behavior when a sudden noise made him stop dead in his tracks. He grabbed Solo by the wrist to pull him behind a tree and… Solo screamed. Loudly.

"What the hell, Cowboy, shut up!", he whispered urgently.

"It's not my fault you're such a brute..."

His voice was shaking. Illya's frown deepened. He hadn't gripped Cowboy's wrist with enough force to hurt him. There is was again, the same noise. He silently stepped closer to the source of the rustling and his heart jumped as a frightened blackbird suddenly flew out of the bushes. He let out the breath he had been holding and turned toward Solo.

"It's just a b…"

He stopped mid-sentence. Cowboy was taking off his pants.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

"It hurts…"

If he had had any doubts before, they were gone now. There was definitely something wrong with his partner.

"And what's next, your underwear?", he growled. Then he noticed the expression on Solo's face. He was clearly in pain. A lot of pain.

"What's the matter with you, Cowboy?", he asked in a softer tone.

"The handicap…"

"What?"

"Shelley… he said I would play with a handicap…I…I think it's poison."

* * *

 _ **Unknown location**_

* * *

"You're late, Conor."

"Hardly."

"Where were you?"

"With Shelley."

"You weren't with Shelley when I called you."

"Alright, alright, you caught me, old man. I might have made a little detour on my way to Shelley's."

His partner frowned.

"What did you do, Conor?"

The young assassin felt a small smile tug at his lips. He pulled his "trophy" out of his coat pocket and handed it to his partner. It was a physician business card. French. It had been dipped in blood. Wilfred blew out a heavy sigh as he deciphered the name on the card.

"What did you do to him?"

Conor fished the small remote out of his backpack and held it up, his smile turning into an ear-to-ear grin.

"I put it in his mouth and taped it shut… boom…" He mimed pressing the button on the remote. "He cried, you know…"

Conor let out an amused chuckle. He could tell that Wilfred was pissed off. And it made the whole thing even better. After a few seconds of silent staring, Wilfred shook his head and sighed again.

"I hope you cleaned up after yourself."

"Of course I did, old man. I know my job."

"Can we focus on the assignment, now?"

Wilfred handed the blood-stained business card back to him and Conor slipped it back into his pocket. That one, he would keep carefully. Until he could give it to Drancy. That would definitely deal a death blow to the agent's already failing heart…

* * *

 **End of chapter 8.**

 **Ouch. Guess who will never be in trouble again... :s  
**

 **Hope you enjoyed the read :)**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9! Collective ouch :)**

 ** ** **(here are the designs for Maxime Drancy, Thomas Réant, Conor Reed, Benjamin Shelley, and Antoine Barrère (made in character creator 3): "https":"/""/""ibb".co"/"album"/"g9a3qa (just remove the ""), I'll add more characters to the album soon :) )******

* * *

 _ **Argelès-Gazost, Asher's p.o.v.**_

* * *

"How is your shoulder?"

"It stings a little…"

Drancy winced in sympathy.

"I feel your pain. I got bitten in the butt by a patou once, when I was a teenager. Huge sheep dogs. They were used to protect the herds from wolves."

"From wolves? Where can I get one?"

Drancy smiled.

"I'll give you a few addresses if we survive this mission."

It was the first time Asher had seen the guy smile since Drancy had found him wandering just outside of Argelès, their meeting point. The French agent looked tired… sick, even. But that wasn't surprising. He simply looked like someone who had been tortured and who should probably be getting some rest in the hospital instead of embarking on a potentially dangerous mission.

"How long will it take us to get there?"

"Not too long… if I can remember the way."

Asher nodded, he couldn't be of much help in that department. He had gotten lost on his way to Argelès, which was about seven minutes away from their safe house in Saint-Savin. He was definitely grateful that Drancy had come to pick him up. As they reached the French agent's car, Asher noticed that Drancy was holding one hand to his chest. He seemed preoccupied.

"Are you okay…? Does your chest hurt?"

"No, it's nothing, it's just my heart…", Drancy answered dismissively.

"Oh, if it's _just_ your heart then it's fine, nothing to worry about, really… If you don't mind, I think I'll drive from now on."

Drancy did not protest as Asher climbed into the driver's seat. He simply stepped around the car and got in on the passenger side.

"Just so you know, I'm the worst at giving chest compressions, I'll probably break your sternum and stab your heart with it, or something."

Drancy smiled again. At least he seemed to appreciate Asher's sense of humor.

 _I'm only half-joking, though…_

"Don't worry, I should be fine."

"What's wrong with your heart, anyway?"

"I…don't really know."

"That's reassuring… Look, maybe you should stay in the car once we get there."

"You need someone to watch your back."

"Yeah…but still, I'd rather you died of a heart attack alone in the car than from my lousy chest compressions."

Drancy gave a small laugh, then winced and cradled his broken ribs. Asher knew how painful those could be. And he knew that the painkillers Drancy had taken could only do so much. Maybe this expedition wasn't such a good idea… But if there was a chance that they could find out where Gaby was, calling it off was out of the question. He wanted to save Gaby. And Illya would skin him alive. Literally. Drancy would just have to tough it out... Asher had been reluctant to let Illya go rescue Solo on his own. But since Drancy had been tortured and wasn't exactly in the best shape, they couldn't reasonably expect him to go looking for _their_ missing partner alone. Besides, Gaby was his friend and he wanted to actively participate in her rescue. He had thought about asking for reinforcements, but even if their handlers agreed to send someone, they just couldn't afford to wait for them. Not if they wanted Gaby and Solo to be alive when they found them. He knew that Illya could manage on his own, but the Russian was gradually becoming more of a friend than a colleague and Asher wanted to make sure that he would someday be able to return the favor for the many times Illya had saved his life...

 _Mr. KGB will be fine, Asher, just focus on the task at hand…_

"Do you think Kuryakin will be okay on his own? I hope I didn't send him to his death…"

 _Seriously, Drancy?!..._

* * *

 _ **Unknown location**_

* * *

"He's dying."

"I tried to warn you, Sir…"

"Can you do something about it?"

"I can try. But I think it's too late."

"Did he tell you anything?"

"Maxime. That's all we could get out of him."

"Maxime Drancy doesn't know anything. We have already interrogated him."

"Maybe he's better at resisting torture than you thought."

"We drugged him."

"It's not the most reliable method…"

"He answered every single question."

"Then maybe you didn't ask the right questions, Sir…"

"Go on."

"If our friend here wanted to protect Drancy, maybe he didn't really _tell_ him anything."

"…"

"Sir?"

"In that case, we still need Drancy alive."

"What about him, Sir? Do you still want me to save him?"

"Do what you can to keep him alive until we get our hands on Drancy. Then I will personally end his suffering."

"As you wish, Sir."

"Tu entends ça, Tom? On va le ramener, et on va lui faire mal. Très mal.*/* You hear that, Tom? We're going to bring him here, and we're going to hurt him. Bad."

* * *

 _ **Abandoned house, Conor's p.o.v.**_

* * *

"Here they come. I told you this was the best place. Far enough, so they can't spot us. It's the ideal shooting distance, and with that angle, as long as they don't get into the house, there is barely any cover."

Conor smiled contentedly as he followed the agents' stealthy approach through the scope of his rifle.

"Then let's make sure they don't get a chance to get into the house. Shoot Drancy."

He shot a quick glance at his partner.

"I've waited so long to hear you say that, old man."

The young assassin looked into the scope again. He secured his aim and pulled the trigger, smiling with delight as his target went down.

"You missed the heart."

"I wasn't aiming for his heart. I hit him exactly where I wanted to."

Through the scope, he could make out the shocked expression on the French agent's face as he pressed his hand against the newly acquired hole, high in the left side of his chest. He watched the CIA agent struggle to drag Drancy behind the only – relative – cover provided by a tree. He grabbed his rifle and moved to get a better view.

"Clever, but I can still see you."

"Why didn't you kill him?"

"I wanted to watch him suffer a little. Besides…now Marshall is going to try to control the bleeding."

Wilfred shot him a questioning look, to which he responded by an ear-to-ear grin. He watched through his scope as the CIA agent used his combat knife to cut Drancy's shirt open, exposing the wound, then cut a piece of the shirt and balled it up. He waited until Marshall was bent over Drancy's body and had his hands pressing down on the French agent's upper chest…

"Perfect…"

Then he reached into his pocket, brandished the small remote…

"No! Conor, don't!"

…and pressed the button. Nothing happened. He pressed it again. Then a third time before Wilfred snatched the remote out of his hand.

"Weird…it worked last time…"

The young assassin let out a sigh of frustration and disappointment. He had missed the perfect opportunity to kill both Drancy and Marshall at the same time.

"Oh well…it doesn't matter.", Conor finally said as he picked up his rifle.

"What are you doing?"

"I have a nice, clear shot at Marshall. I'll kill him first, then I'll find another creative way to end Drancy's life."

"Not him, Conor."

"Why not? You want him dead, don't you? Just tell me where to aim. His head…or his heart like last time?... Hmm, his head, for a change…"

* * *

 _ **Wilfred's p.o.v.**_

* * *

The knife was already in his hand. The young assassin was looking into the scope of the rifle, talking, unaware of what was going on behind him. He heard him take a deep breath and, before the young man could put his finger on the trigger, he stabbed the blade into the side of his throat, twisted it, brutally, and jerked it out. Down went the rifle. Down went the boy. He caught the young man in his arms as his legs buckled. He lowered him to the floor, almost tenderly, knelt down beside him and watched him drown in his own blood.

"I said 'not him', Conor. Why don't you ever listen, my little friend?"

He kept his gaze on the young assassin's face until the last spark of life had vanished from his eyes. He checked his pulse, more out of habit than anything else. Little Conor was gone for good, there was no doubt about it. He stood up, picked up his own rifle, aimed it at Asher and pulled the trigger. The tranquilizer dart caught the young agent in the chest. The dosage of the chemical was designed precisely for Asher, taking into account his build and approximate weight. It would take several minutes for the tranquilizer to take effect. Enough time for him to do some cleaning up and get down from his vantage point. About fifteen minutes later, he was standing in the backyard of the house. He spotted Asher's still body a little way away from the tree. The agent had probably had qualms about leaving Drancy to die and his hesitation had cost him the precious minutes he could have used to escape before the tranquilizer took full effect.

 _You wouldn't have gone very far, anyway…_

The assassin knelt down beside him to make sure that he was unconscious, then he gently rolled him over onto his back and took the gun out of his limp hand.

 _You won't be needing it anymore, my little friend…_

He could hear Maxime Drancy's labored breathing and occasional gasps of pain behind him. Conor would have been happy. The French agent was obviously suffering, and more than just 'a little'. He let out an amused sigh and walked up to where Drancy was lying on the ground, his head propped up against the trunk of the tree. The agent's shirt had been cut open and the assassin could see his bare chest rise and fall spasmodically, in time with his ragged breathing. He was holding a balled up piece of fabric against his wound but he was obviously not pressing hard enough and blood was slowly trickling between his fingers and down his chest. Drancy was staring at him with a mixture of anger, fear, and pain in his eyes.

"Surprise, I'm not one of the good guys..."

 _But you already knew that, didn't you? Since you got rid of all my trackers...well...almost all of them...  
_

He closed his hand around the agent's wrist and gently pulled his hand away from the wound. Drancy gasped and tried to struggle but the shock and pain of being shot had obviously drained his strength, leaving him weak and vulnerable. The assassin examined the wound for a few seconds. A nice hole, just a couple of inches below the agent's left clavicle. He felt a smile tug at his lips.

 _Conor was definitely a remarkable shooter…_

"You'll be pleased to know that your wound is not necessarily fatal. It will be, however, unless you get medical attention soon enough. We both know that's not going to happen, though. Or maybe your arrhythmia will kill you first. After all, that is a lot of stress for someone with a bad heart…"

He placed his free hand on Drancy's chest. His heart was racing.

 _Of course…_

"Funny that a man your age, healthy, and with no history of cardiac problems, should suddenly suffer from severe arrhythmia, don't you think? I'd say that's terrible, terrible luck…"

He smiled at the mixture of pain and confusion in the French agent's eyes. Then confusion gave way to disbelief. The assassin gave a soft laugh and delicately peeled off the bandage on Drancy's ribs.

"By the way, it's a good thing that the explosive charge I implanted beneath your ribs didn't go off. It would have been a shame if my good friend Asher had been injured. It probably got damaged by the shock from the defibrillator."

He shrugged and placed Drancy's hand back on the wound.

"You're not applying enough pressure, Maxime, make an effort."

He pressed down, viciously hard, to make the agent scream and listened to his ragged breathing for a while. After a minute, he stood up to leave, then stopped.

"Oh I almost forgot…"

He pulled two items out of his coat pocket and showed them to Drancy. The first item was the French agent's medallion.

"I got that back for you, you seemed to be very attached to it."

He let the medallion drop onto Drancy's stomach and showed him the second item, the blood-stained business card. A thrill of anticipation ran through him as he watched Drancy make an effort to read the name on the card and, suddenly, what little color the agent had left completely drained from his face.

"Non… Antoine…"

The assassin smiled and gently slipped the card under Drancy's arm, right over his heart. He gave him a light pat on the chest before he stood up, went to pick up Asher's unconscious body and left.

* * *

 **End of chapter 9.**

 **"gently, gently, gently, gently..." Yes, my assassin is _very_ gentle :P**

 **Fly away, Conor. Fly away, Max...**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10! Short chapter with some "ouch" in it :P**

 **(here are the designs for Maxime Drancy, Thomas Réant, Conor Reed, Benjamin Shelley, Antoine Barrère, and William Wilfred (made in character creator 3): "https":"/""/""ibb".co"/"album"/"g9a3qa (just remove the ""), I'll add more characters to the album soon :) )**

* * *

 _ **Somewhere in the woods, Illya's p.o.v.**_

* * *

"Please, Cowboy…you have to get up, we need to leave…"

Illya could tell that his partner was not listening to him. He wasn't even sure that Cowboy could hear him. He was too focused on his pain. Illya closed his hand around his partner's wrist as gently as he could but as soon as he started pulling him up, Solo cried out in agony. Illya let go and almost clamped his hand over his partner's mouth but he stopped himself at the last moment. That would only have made the screaming worse. Even the slightest touch seemed to cause him intense pain. Granted, Solo was a fragile American, but this was definitely excessive, even for him. Illya had no idea what kind of poison the assassin had used. It had been administered via a dart syringe. At first, Cowboy had thought that it was some kind of tranquilizer, meant to slow him down. But it was worse than that. Much worse. Illya didn't know if the effects of the poison were limited in time, he didn't know if Cowboy's condition would stabilize or keep getting worse until his body couldn't take the pain anymore. He didn't know if there was an antidote… All he knew was that if he wanted to help his partner, he needed to get him out of there first. But although that had seemed like a reasonable objective twenty minutes earlier, it no longer did. Cowboy had gotten increasingly worse until he was simply unable to walk, or even stand up. Illya had tried to help him up. Several times. He had even tried to carry him. But every time he touched him, Cowboy reacted as if he was being tortured, thrashing about and screaming. And even when he wasn't touching him, his partner seemed to be in severe pain. Illya sighed and clenched his fists in frustration. If only he had some type of tranquilizer to knock Cowboy out, then it would be somewhat easier to carry him. But he didn't. Which meant that his only two options were to either try to carry him anyway and hope the pain overload would cause him to lose consciousness, or to wait for the effects of the poison to dissipate, although he had no way of knowing when or _if_ that would happen. Both options were less than ideal, to say the least. If they stayed too long in the same spot, the assassin would find them, eventually. And if Illya decided to carry-torture his partner, the screaming would give away their location. As he racked his brain, trying to find a better solution, he suddenly realized that Cowboy was moving. Or at least he was _trying_ to move. He was gasping and whimpering and was apparently trying to get up on his hands and knees. One of his hands was outstretched, reaching for Illya. Illya immediately crouched back down and moved closer. But before he could say or do anything, Solo grabbed his gun hand, crying out in agony as he did so. Then he pulled himself closer with the little strength he had left. Illya frowned, confused. It was only when Cowboy shakily placed the barrel of the gun against his own forehead and looked up at him with pleading eyes that he understood what was going on.

 _No…_

"No!"

He pulled his hand back, careful not to hurt his partner too much, but Cowboy was holding on tight, despite the pain.

"What the hell, Cowboy, stop!"

Illya pulled harder and Solo finally let go and crumpled to the ground, shaking and gasping. Shaken, Illya took a few steps back and set the gun down on the ground. Apparently, he had underestimated the amount of pain Cowboy was in. He sometimes called his partner a 'fragile American' to tease him, but of course he knew that it wasn't true. Solo was tough. And it made the situation even more disturbing…

"No mercy-killing, then? You're just going to let him suffer? How heartless of you, Kuryakin…"

Illya's heart skipped a couple of beats at the sound of the man's voice. He had been so focused on Cowboy that he had not heard him approach. He did not turn around to face the assassin. Instead, he looked down at his gun on the ground. Maybe he would be fast enough to grab it and…

"I wouldn't if I were you. Unless you want me to shoot your partner in the face…or worse. Much worse."

Illya's gaze settled on Solo's face. His partner's eyes were screwed shut, his features contorted in a grimace of pain, he was breathing unevenly. Illya felt a sudden pang of guilt and he briefly wondered whether he should have pulled the trigger instead of giving the freak a chance to torture his friend…

"Fascinating, this poison… Apparently, it messes with nerve endings and increases skin sensitivity so that even the slightest touch becomes painful."

Illya finally turned around and glared at the assassin. The tall, dark-haired man was holding a gun and was pointing it at Solo.

"My colleague could tell you more about it, he's an expert. If I remember correctly, he even mixed it with another substance which keeps the victim conscious despite the overwhelming pain. Nice _touch_ , don't you think?"

The man chuckled. His tone was friendly, almost kind, and he was smiling pleasantly. He was acting as if he were having a pleasant chat with a friend. Not describing the vicious poison he had used to torture his victim. He gestured at the gun on the ground.

"Just kick the gun this way, will you. You won't be needing it. Take off the belt and the leg sheath, too."

Illya reluctantly complied. He kicked the gun in the man's direction. The assassin picked it up and slipped it into his holster. A few seconds passed. The man was staring at Illya with the same smile still pasted on his lips, and with his gun still pointed at Solo. After a minute or two of uncomfortable silence, he finally spoke again.

"Touch him."

Illya felt his gut twist.

 _No…_

He would _not_ be forced to hurt his friend. Not again. The assassin had obviously noticed his reaction and his smile was slowly growing wider.

"Come on. Don't be shy. Touch him."

As the seconds dragged by, and Illya still refused to move, the man stepped closer and pointed his gun directly at Cowboy's head.

"I'll let you in on a little secret. The effect of the poison is temporary. A bullet to the brain, on the other hand, has more permanent consequences."

Illya felt a small measure of relief. The effect of the poison was reversible. Which meant that there was still hope for his partner. Unless the twisted asshole decided to shoot him in the head, of course... He felt his jaw clench. He had no other choice but to comply, even if it meant more pain for Cowboy. He crouched down beside Solo and laid his hand on his shoulder, as gently as possible. His partner gasped and tried to escape his touch. Illya immediately drew his hand back. The assassin gave a short, amused laugh.

"Entertaining, isn't it? Now step on his hand."

 _What?..._

Illya looked up at the man who was smiling expectantly. He hesitated. He knew that hands, and especially fingers, contained a particularly high concentration of nerve endings. But he also knew that as long as the sadistic bastard had the gun pointed at his friend's head, he did not really have a choice.

 _Sorry, Cowboy… I'm not letting him shoot you…yet…_

He slowly stood up and placed his foot just above Solo's upturned left hand. He shot a guilty glance at his partner's face. His eyes were still screwed shut against the pain. He looked so helpless…

"Come on, Kuryakin, make him scream this time."

Illya stared at the man for a few seconds, trying to decide whether the satisfaction of smashing the assassin's face in would be enough to outweigh the inconvenience of taking two or three bullets in the process. Probably not. Especially if the man chose to shoot Cowboy first. He gritted his teeth and transferred his weight to his right foot, crushing his friend's hand. His heart sank as he heard Cowboy scream. The assassin laughed again.

"Hmm, I can tell it hurt you at least as much as it hurt him. Well, since you care about your partner so much, I'll let you carry him back to the house. Don't worry about the screaming. I don't mind. Quite the contrary."

The assassin gestured at Cowboy's body with the gun, and, with a heavy heart, Illya picked up his friend, trying and failing to ignore his cries of agony as he held him tight against him to limit his convulsive movements.

"If it makes you feel better," the assassin said as he motioned for him to start walking, "this is nothing compared to what _I_ will do to him…"

* * *

 _ **Unknown location, Wilfred's p.o.v.**_

* * *

It felt weird, the silence. He had become so accustomed to having Conor blabbering on and on in the passenger seat. Weird, but not unpleasant. He glanced at the agent in the rearview mirror. There was little danger of _him_ talking his ear off. Asher would remain unconscious for at least another half hour, then he would have to inject him with another dose. He had decided that he would keep the agent sedated until he had reached his final destination. He did not want to spoil the surprise. He took his eyes off the road again and studied Asher's face in the rearview mirror for a few seconds. He smiled. With his facial features completely relaxed, the agent looked younger than his age. He looked so peaceful. So defenseless.

 _Killing you now would be so easy…_

But where would be the fun in that? No, this time, he would give Asher a chance to fight back. His smile widened as he felt his pulse quicken in anticipation. This would definitely be interesting. He couldn't wait. But first, he had another stop to make. Another package to pick up before he could head to his final destination.

* * *

 _ **Unknown location**_

* * *

 _-…We need Maxime Drancy alive, and able to speak. Just make sure your men don't kill him or damage him too much before we get there. Especially Reed._

"Of course, Sir."

 _-Oh, and just one more thing, it appears that some of our people have gone missing…_

"I suppose you're referring to Sullivan and Lacroix, Sir."

 _-Precisely. Any idea about what could have happened to them?_

"I…no, Sir, we don't know…"

 _-Well, I think I do. Control your man or_ we _will have to intervene. Have I made myself clear?_

"…"

 _-Have you lost your tongue, mon garçon*? (*son)_

"No…don't worry, we will take care of it, Sir."

 _-Good. Let's hope I won't have to call you again._

"…"

The man hung up the phone, gave an exasperated sigh, and turned to face his superior.

"I can't stand that condescending French asshole. He's lucky he has friends in high places…"

"Cordier is not wrong, though. You should keep your man on a shorter leash. His attitude is becoming increasingly problematic. _We_ 're lucky he hasn't killed Drancy..."

"But you don't understand, Sir…he can't be controlled."

"I see. Well, if he can't be controlled, he's useless to us. Worse, that makes him a liability."

"Sir…"

"He served his purpose, now I think it's time for him to retire. Call Shelley."

"With all due respect, I don't think it's a good idea. If this goes wrong…"

"You're not scared of your own man, are you?"

"Of course I am. He's one of the most dangerous people I know. And we both know he's terrible at dying… Perhaps you should reconsider, Sir."

"Call Shelley. Now."

"…

As you wish, Sir."

* * *

 **End of chapter 10.**

 **(I swear I don't hate Solo, haha) I hope you enjoyed the read :)**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11 :)**

 ** **(here are the designs for Maxime Drancy, Thomas Réant, Conor Reed, Benjamin Shelley, Antoine Barrère, and William Wilfred (made in character creator 3): "https":"/""/""ibb".co"/"album"/"g9a3qa (just remove the ""), I'll add more characters to the album soon :) )****

* * *

 _ **Somewhere in the woods, Illya's p.o.v.**_

* * *

While Illya trudged through the forest with his – heavier than he looked – partner slung over his shoulders and a gun pointed at his back, he was also trying very hard to come up with a plan that would allow him to a) kill their sadistic captor – preferably in a brutal and painful way, and b) get Cowboy and himself the hell out of these woods. The assassin had taken his gun and had forced him to discard his tactical belt with his spare magazines and his leg sheath, which left him with…not much. The only weapon he had left was a stiletto switchblade in his pants pocket. If used correctly and with the element of surprise, the long, thin blade could potentially be an effective weapon. The tricky part was to take it out of his pocket without the assassin noticing. Their captor obviously had good mastery of the ranges of hand-to-hand combat. He had never once put himself in a position that could have given Illya an opportunity to attack him. The man mostly kept out of his field of vision but without walking directly behind him, which made it hard for Illya to evaluate the distance between them or the man's approximate position. The other problem was the whimpering, shaking, gasping bundle over his shoulders. Although Cowboy had quieted down a little and was no longer thrashing around, Illya couldn't really do much while he was carrying him. The assassin knew it and that was the only reason why he had not restrained him. If he was going to put his plan into action, he needed to "get rid" of Cowboy first. And for that he would have to hurt him. Again. He sighed inwardly. At least, this time, it would be for a good cause. He hesitated for a few more seconds, then he pretended to adjust his grip on Solo's body and started squeezing his leg. He heard Cowboy gasp and felt his body jerk. He almost loosened his grip. Then he remembered what the assassin had said. This was nothing compared to what the man would do to his partner. He mentally apologized to Solo and tightened his grip. This time, Solo cried out and started flailing about. Illya kept walking. The intense, unrelenting pain had obviously weakened his partner and he was not struggling hard enough to make the ruse seem convincing. Illya cursed inwardly and clenched his teeth.

 _Come on, Cowboy, one last effort…_

He suddenly squeezed Solo's leg as hard as he could. Just as he expected, his partner screamed like a dying man and began to thrash around wildly until Illya simply couldn't hold him anymore. Or at least that's what he wanted their captor to believe. He took a few – hopefully convincing – stumbling steps and put one knee on the ground, then he gently let poor Cowboy slide off his shoulders, using his partner's body to hide his hand as he quickly fished the knife out of his pocket and flicked it open.

"What are you doing?"

Illya froze for a second. Then he swiftly slid the thin knife up his sleeve and turned to face the assassin.

"He needs a break."

The man looked down at Solo, then his gaze settled on Illya's face. For several uncomfortable seconds, he just stared at Illya, without uttering a word. Illya suddenly became aware of how hard his heart was pounding and how heavily he was breathing. The man finally smiled and winked at him.

"Are you sure _he_ 's the one who needs the break? Someone seems a little out of breath… Just a few minutes, then. But you're only prolonging the ordeal, you know."

Illya shot him a murderous glare to hide his relief. The man had not seen him pull out the knife. The first phase of the plan was complete. Now he needed to – repeatedly – stick the knife into the man's vital organs, which was not going to be an easy task considering that the assassin apparently had a built-in optimal fighting range calculator… Illya had decided that he would wait until they got ready to leave again to make his move. He was vaguely hoping that by not trying anything during the "break", he would lull the man into a false sense of security. As he silently sat next to poor Cowboy, he tried to come up with the best way to murder the bastard. Simply getting close to him would be impossible. At best, the man would maintain the distance between them, at worst, he would shoot Illya. Or Cowboy. Throwing the knife was not an option, either. The stiletto knife was not designed to be thrown, it was not properly balanced, there was no way he would be able to accurately hit a vital organ with it. And if he did injure the man but failed to kill him, their captor would probably be beyond pissed off and take it out on his partner. No, what he needed was some kind of diversion. Something that would keep the man distracted during the few seconds it would take for Illya to close the distance between them and stab the knife into the assassin's heart. Earlier, he had briefly entertained the idea of throwing his partner's body at their captor. Well not exactly "throwing", more like "accidentally dropping him on the bastard with enough force to stun him". That would definitely surprise the man. But there was a risk that the assassin would shoot Solo as a reflex. Besides, Illya didn't really know how much pain his partner could handle without his heart giving out. If even the slightest touch was painful to him, throwing Cowboy at the enemy probably wasn't a good idea and could potentially be fatal to him. Illya glanced at the assassin. The man was leaning against a tree, not far from them. He still had his gun trained on Cowboy. In his other hand he was holding what looked like some kind of remote control. Illya saw him press a button before the man pocketed the device, looked up, and smiled at him. Illya looked away and cursed inwardly. He definitely needed to find a way to wipe the man's smile off his face.

 _Think, Illya…_

He couldn't throw the knife, he couldn't throw Cowboy… Maybe there was something else he could throw at the bastard's face… He scanned the ground around him. Dirt, pine needles, twigs, pieces of shale. His gaze lingered on the rock fragments. They were not very large, but thrown hard enough, they would hurt. And pain usually was an effective distraction… He thought about it for a few seconds, then discarded the idea. This was not a playground fight. He needed something better than just throwing stupid rocks. An actual plan with perfect timing and each move carefully plann…

"Your break is over. Let's go."

 _Shit…_

So much for the careful planning… Illya slowly got to his feet, he shot one last glance at his captor before he bent down to pick up his partner… But instead, he picked up the largest piece of rock he could find. Just a few seconds. That was all he needed. He felt adrenaline kick through his body as he suddenly turned around and threw the rock as hard as he could at his captor's face. The rock fragment hit the man square in the forehead, producing a surprisingly loud crack, reminiscent of a coconut being split open. Even as he heard the man gasp in pain and surprise, Illya was already moving, knife in hand. Just as planned, it only took him a few seconds to close the distance between him and the assassin. But time has a curious tendency to become elastic when you're running toward an armed opponent, hoping that the pathetic piece of rock you threw at him hurt him enough to prevent him from shooting you before you can stab him…

Apparently, the pathetic piece of rock had not done such a bad job. The man was visibly stunned, and Illya had successfully completed the "getting close without getting shot" part of the plan. Now he just needed to stick the knife into the bastard's chest, preferably into his heart… Unfortunately, that particular part of the plan never came to fruition. Just as Illya was thrusting the knife at the man's exposed chest, the assassin, who up until that point had been groaning with pain and pressing his hand against his forehead, suddenly grabbed his wrist and pulled his arm to the side with surprising speed. The thin blade, instead of embedding itself between the man's ribs, sliced through his clothes, only making a shallow slash wound across his chest.

 _Shit!_

Now the man was bleeding from both his head and chest, but he was still very much alive. And he was definitely pissed off. But the worst part was that his other hand, the one which was not gripping Illya's wrist, was not empty. He was still holding the gun…and he was now pointing it at Illya's head.

"Drop it.", the assassin said in a surprisingly calm voice as he let go of Illya's wrist and took a few steps back.

Illya reluctantly complied and dropped the knife. There was nothing he could do against the man's gun. The man motioned for him to step away from the knife. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the weird remote control thing. He pressed a button and slipped it back into his pocket. For a couple of minutes, nothing happened, then they appeared. Guards, five of them. With guns. Five of them. Pointed at him. The assassin gestured at Illya and two of the guards walked up to him. One of them used a cable tie to tie his hands behind his back. Apparently, he would not be carrying his partner any longer… An unsettling thought suddenly crossed his mind and his heart began to pound faster. Did that mean that the bastard was going to kill Cowboy? He felt his concern grow as the assassin went to pick up the stiletto knife and started pacing, absentmindedly tracing the bloody slash wound on his chest with his fingers. He stopped in front of Illya. Blood from the small wound on his forehead was trickling down his face but he didn't seem to care. A weird smile slowly formed on his lips.

"You almost stabbed me in the heart…"

The man was looking at him as if he was expecting an answer. Illya remained silent. What was he supposed to say? Of course he had tried to kill the sadistic bastard who had forced him to torture his friend. Several seconds dragged past. Illya could feel his heart pounding hard against his ribcage. He had seen the look of pure rage in the assassin's eyes just after he had tried to stab him. The man was going to punish him, there was no doubt about it. The only question was whether the assassin would choose to hurt him directly…or by hurting Cowboy. He did not have to wait long for the answer. Without taking his eyes off him, the assassin walked up to where Solo was lying on the ground. Illya cursed inwardly.

 _Of course…_

The man crouched down beside Cowboy, clamped a hand around his left wrist, pinning it to the ground. Then, without any warning, he raised the stiletto knife and brutally stabbed it into Cowboy's palm. Solo let out a weird, strangled cry as the long, thin blade went through his hand. Then his limbs twitched a few times before his body became completely limp. Stunned, Illya watched as the assassin adjusted his grip on his partner's wrist to check his pulse…and shook his head.

"Oops. Oh well, I suppose I should have been more gentle. It's a shame, though, I was hoping he would last a little longer…"

He looked up at Illya and smiled mischievously. Keeping his grip on Solo's wrist, he lifted his arm up then let go. Solo's arm dropped back down limply. Illya stared at the unmoving arm, he felt as if he had been punched in the gut. Cowboy was dead?... He tore his gaze away from his partner's still body as he heard the assassin begin to laugh softly. Then a little harder.

"He's not dead.", the man finally said between chuckles. "But the look on your face was priceless…"

Illya just stared at him, partly relieved, partly annoyed, partly ready to murder the asshole – even if it meant that he would get shot. It took about another minute before the assassin stopped laughing completely and gestured to the guards. One of them went to pick up Cowboy's unconscious body and put him over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. The assassin turned to Illya with his infuriating mischievous smile still pasted on his lips.

"Shall we?"

As Illya started following the guard who was carrying Cowboy, his gaze fell on the stiletto knife, still embedded in his partner's hand. No wonder Cowboy had blacked out. It would have been a very painful wound, even without the effects of the poison. Illya also knew that there was a risk that his partner would be left with permanent hand damage. But at least he was alive… The random thought suddenly crossed his mind that he could probably have thrown his partner at the assassin without killing him. Then his thoughts drifted to Gaby. He had tried to avoid thinking too much about her. But now that he had seen the assassin torture Solo, he couldn't help but wonder if another sadistic freak was doing the same thing to her…

* * *

 _ **Twenty minutes later, inside the mansion, Illya's p.o.v.**_

* * *

Illya was trying hard to concentrate on the pain in his shoulders to avoid thinking about what they might be doing to his partner. The walk to the mansion had taken them about fifteen minutes, although it had seemed shorter to Illya. Walking had been much easier without Cowboy flailing around on his shoulders. The guards had taken turns carrying his partner who had regained consciousness shortly before they had reached the mansion. Then Solo and him had been separated. Illya had been taken down to the mansion basement. The basement was a large room with a concrete floor and walls, empty, except for a couple of chairs, a metal table, and a small, rusty metal sink attached to the back wall. The only door was behind him and he had heard the sound of a bolt sliding close when the guards had left. Useless precaution, he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. The guards had forced him to sit down on a chair and had tied his hands together, they had done the same with his ankles, then had used another length of rope to connect his wrists and ankles at the back of the chair. Not a comfortable position to be in. The short piece of rope connecting his ankles and wrists, in addition to preventing him from moving, also put a constant, painful strain on his shoulders. A sudden noise jerked him from his thoughts. Bolt sliding open. A few seconds later, two guards appeared in his field of vision, half carrying, half dragging poor Cowboy who was sporting a bandage the size of a boxing glove around his left hand. They dragged him in front of Illya's chair and left him there. Illya looked down at his partner, his eyes were still shut but his contracted features and the occasional whimpers which escaped his lips indicated that he was conscious. How much longer would it take for the effects of the poison to dissipate? Not that it really mattered anyway, the assassin probably had a ton of other ideas to inflict pain on his partner…

He suddenly became aware of a presence behind him, then he heard the assassin's voice.

"You know what, I just realized that I never formally introduced myself. How rude of me. I'm Benjamin Shelley."

Illya felt the man grab his right hand and shake it harder than necessary, increasing the strain on his already aching shoulders. He winced and reflexively tried to pull his hand out of the man's grip. The assassin laughed and suddenly tugged at Illya's hand, sending a sharp, painful wave through his shoulders. This time he couldn't suppress a gasp of pain. Apparently satisfied, the man let go of his hand and squeezed his shoulder before stepping around the chair and finally entering Illya's field of vision. He had wiped the blood off his face and had changed out of his bloodstained shirt. He stepped closer to Solo's body and stared at him for a few seconds.

"Hmm. Apparently, our friend Mr. Solo is feeling much better. Isn't this wonderful news, Kuryakin?"

He winked at Illya and pulled something out of his pocket. Illya felt his pulse quicken as he recognized his stiletto knife. Apparently, the man was still bitter about Illya's failed attempt on his life. Shelley flicked the knife open, stepped around Solo's body and knelt down beside him.

"First, let's make sure he doesn't try to go anywhere…"

Illya watched helplessly as the assassin used the point of his knife to make small, shallow cuts on his partner's right palm. He repeated the same process for Solo's knees, elbows, and the soles of his feet. Cowboy screamed but he did not lose consciousness this time.

"See, I've learned from my mistake. I promise you he won't black out again. Or maybe just a couple of times…", the man said, winking at Illya again before he turned his attention back to his victim. "And now, here comes the fun part…"

Illya felt his blood run cold as Shelley brought the knife close to his partner's face, the point almost touching his closed eyelid.

 _No…_

The bastard was about to disfigure his friend and there was nothing he could do.

"Wait, no!..."

The sudden sound of the door opening behind him and banging against the wall made him jump and his first thought was that Shelley had probably stabbed Cowboy's eye out of surprise. Thankfully he hadn't. If the man had been startled by the sudden intrusion, he was doing a very good job at hiding it.

"Telephone call for you, Sir. It's urgent."

Illya let out the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding as Shelley slowly moved the knife away from Cowboy's face and got to his feet. He looked at Illya and shrugged apologetically. Then he left the room without a word. Illya waited for a few seconds then…

"Cowboy…"

No reaction. He tried again, a little louder.

"Cowboy! Please just snap out of it, we have to get out of here."

This time, Solo opened his eyes. His watery, bloodshot eyes. He briefly looked up at Illya then grimaced and closed his eyes again, as if even the light was hurting him. He did not get up and free Illya, he did not even attempt to crawl, he did not move at all. Illya sighed in frustration. He could understand that his partner was in too much pain to move but that didn't mean he wasn't allowed to be pissed off about it. They were both going to die. Unless the effects of the poison dissipated really, _really_ fast. Or unless Asher suddenly remembered that he had once had a Russian partner who had foolishly thought that he could rescue his friend alone… After a few minutes – during which neither of those convenient scenarios came true – Illya heard the door open again, more gently this time.

"Hmm, I'm going to have to leave you for a short while. A couple of hours at most. Work meeting, you know…", Shelley said, as he slowly walked into his field of vision. "But don't worry, I have an idea that will keep you both entertained while I'm gone."

He flashed Illya his mischievous smile before he grabbed Cowboy by the arms and dragged him toward the small sink attached to the wall in front of Illya. Ignoring his victim's gasps of pain, he propped him up against the wall, pulled a piece of rope out of his pocket, grabbed Cowboy's right wrist, pulled it up, twisted it awkwardly, and used the rope to secure it tightly to the faucet so that his hand would be directly under the water flow. Then he turned on the hot water faucet just enough for the water to leak, one drop at a time. Cowboy whimpered as the water hit his hand and weakly tried to move it from under the faucet. Shelley chuckled softly as his victim's whimpers turned into cries. He looked straight into Illya's eyes for a few seconds, gently squeezed his shoulder as he walked past his chair, and disappeared behind him. Illya heard the bolt slide shut. He was stuck in this room. With his poor partner. And his cries of agony.

* * *

 _ **Unknown location, Wilfred's p.o.v.**_

* * *

 _So, they're sending Shelley…_

He gave an annoyed sigh and glanced at Asher who was lying on the couch, still unconscious. His plan would have to wait... Benjamin Shelley was one of the few assassins he knew who did not have a preferred killing method. Shelley could kill you with a baby rattle if he found one lying around. While Wilfred admired the man's spontaneity, Shelley's unpredictable personality also made him a very hard to read, very dangerous opponent, which probably explained why their employers had decided to send him. He had received a call from them earlier. They wanted to make sure that Drancy was alive. He had reassured them. Of course he hadn't killed Drancy. Conor had. Naughty Conor. But he had omitted that last part, of course. He wanted to keep his employers calm and contented… They had asked to speak with Conor, too. But Conor was busy. Busy being dead. They had told him to stay put and await further orders. Actually, they had _insisted_ that he stay put. A call from Shelley, about ten minutes later, had confirmed his suspicions. Shelley was paying him a visit. Apparently, there was something important – about the mission, of course – that he wanted to discuss with him. In person. Wilfred had a pretty good idea of what that "something" was. Shelley wanted to discuss a bullet between his eyes. Or a KA-BAR knife into his throat. Or maybe a baby rattle, buried deep into his eye socket… He wasn't too worried, though. Thanks to his late colleague, he would be able to see Shelley coming.

 _Good job, Conor…_

He smiled at the irony. The young man he had brutally killed earlier had probably contributed to saving his life. He glanced at the tracking device, then at his watch. Perfect. That gave him enough time to pay a little visit to his dear employers.

 _Samuel, and Christopher…_

* * *

 _ **Unknown location**_

* * *

"Apparently, Reed has gone missing, too. He's probably dead."

"Shame. He was a promising young man. A bit rash and cocky, but promising."

"I suppose you're going to have Wilfred killed?"

"Non, non. He has already shown that he can be a valuable asset. He just needs some… firmer guidance. Someone who's not afraid of punishing him if he misbehaves."

"Good luck torturing a man who enjoys pain…"

"Oh don't worry, I know exactly how to "hurt" him… In fact, I think I've found the perfect punishment for him. And the way to keep him docile and cooperative."

"I see... What about Waverly, Sir? It's going to be harder to approach him now that he knows he's being targeted…"

"I will take care of Waverly. I managed to convince _them_ that killing him was not necessary and they decided to let me handle him. Anyway, how is our friend Thomas?"

"Still clinging to life, Sir."

"Bien* (*good), according to his tracker, Drancy is back at the abandoned house. I sent a few men to pick him up. Maybe our dear Maxime will get to see his former partner one last time before he dies."

* * *

 **End of chapter 11. I hope you enjoyed this one :)**


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12. I hope you'll like this one, chapter 13 is coming soon :)  
**

 ** ** **(here are the (updated) designs for Maxime Drancy, Thomas Réant, Conor Reed, Benjamin Shelley, Antoine Barrère , and William Wilfred (made in character creator 3): "https":"/""/""ibb".co"/"album"/"g9a3qa (just remove the ""))******

* * *

 _ **Unknown location Wilfred's p.o.v.**_

* * *

 _Well, that went even more smoothly than expected..._

He felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth as he sped down the quiet road. His impromptu visit to his employers had been rather satisfying. That was one less thing he would have to worry about. Now, Shelley... He glanced at the tracking device on the passenger seat and felt another smile of satisfaction stretch his lips. Apparently, his colleague had decided to take his time. He looked up...just in time to slam on the brakes. A flock of sheep was crossing the road just a few feet ahead. He cursed inwardly and, as he waited for the sheep to cross, he picked up the object which had been thrown forward between the seats when he had hit the brakes. Conor's backpack. He took a moment to consider how ironic it would have been if the young assassin's heavy backpack had hit him in the back of the head and killed him. Then he shoved it under the passenger seat and set off again. He kept his eyes on the road for the rest of the drive and, when he finally reached the house, he immediately checked the tracking device again, then his watch. He frowned. According to the tracker, Shelley still hadn't left the mansion. The assassin really _was_ taking his time. Unless...

 _Shit..._

He let himself in through the backdoor, as silently and as cautiously as possible. The bastard was inside the house. He could feel it. His heart started pounding, more from excitement than from fear. Of course Shelley was a dangerous opponent. But killing him would be so satisfying. The tricky part was to take him down without the element of surprise on his side. Shelley was expecting him, he had probably heard the car and already knew that he was in the house. As Wilfred reached the living room, his suspicions were confirmed. The door which had been closed when he had left earlier, was now cracked open.

 _Shit...Asher..._

He paused in front of the door and thought for a second. There was clearly no point in trying to sneak up on his opponent now. Shelley knew he was coming. And he had Asher... He hesitated for a few more seconds, then he slipped his gun back into his shoulder holster, took a deep breath, pushed the door open and stepped into the living room, hoping that Shelley wouldn't just randomly decide to shoot him in the face.

 _Talk about taking a gamble..._

"Hello, Owen."

Asher was still sprawled out on the couch, his ankles cuffed to the wooden armrest. Just the way he had left him. The slight up-and-down movement of his chest indicated that he was still alive. Next to him, sitting on the very edge of the couch, was Shelley. He was smiling pleasantly. Wilfred noticed that he had a sizeable bump on his forehead.

 _That's new..._

Of course, Shelley was pointing a gun at him. His other hand was resting casually on Asher's chest and was holding a second gun, with the barrel pressed under the unconscious agent's chin.

"Benjamin.", he finally answered, nodding at the other man and slowly raising his hands.

"No gun? I'm surprised."

"Not as surprised as I am..."

Shelley smiled.

"Ah, the tracker. Reed did a good job, but I just happen to be slightly better at this game."

"May I ask what you're doing here?"

"Well, like I said on the phone, I just want to have a little chat with you."

Shelley's eyes shifted, almost imperceptibly, to the gun, then back to Wilfred.

"I see. I don't suppose we could work out an arrangement...?"

"Sorry, Owen."

For several seconds they simply stared at each other, silently.

"Make yourself comfortable.", Shelley finally said after a few more awkward seconds. "Take off your coat. Oh, and the backpack, too", he added, as he made a beckoning gesture with the gun.

Wilfred gave him a polite smile before he shrugged off the backpack and slid it across the floor toward the foot of the couch. He then proceeded to remove his coat and let it drop to the floor.

"Holster, belt, and leg sheath."

He slowly took his holster, belt and leg sheath off and also tossed them at Shelley's feet.

"Satisfied?"

Shelley smiled again. His colleague was obviously enjoying himself.

"Now your shirt...and your pants."

 _Clever bastard..._

"Really, Benjamin, I had no idea you felt that way about me."

The other assassin's smile grew wider.

"I know you, Owen. I'm not taking any chances. Oh, and don't forget the shoes."

Wilfred bent over, untied his shoes and kicked them off, then he slowly, carefully untucked his shirt before pulling down his pants. Finally, he started unbuttoning his shirt and, as he took it off, Shelley let out a low whistle.

"So that's the result of your last encounter with Kuryakin... That's a pretty nasty scar."

Shelley stared at the scar on his chest for a few more seconds then he put down the gun he had been holding against Asher's chin, reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs which he tossed on the floor, at Wilfred's feet.

"Cuff yourself to the radiator."

"You had handcuffs all along, and you still had me strip down to my underwear..."

Shelley gave a short laugh.

"Like I said, I know you, Owen."

Wilfred had to suppress a smile as he bent down to pick up the handcuffs.

 _Not as well as you think you do, my little friend..._

He slipped the cuffs around the radiator pipe and closed them around his wrists.

"Do you feel safe enough, now, Benjamin?"

He felt his pulse quicken slightly as Shelley – who still had his gun pointed at him – got up from the couch and stepped closer to make sure that he was properly handcuffed.

"Good. Now we can talk."

Apparently satisfied, the other assassin sat back down on the couch and Wilfred waited for him to say something else. But he didn't. That was typical of Shelley. The man sometimes seemed to suddenly freeze. As if someone had hit a pause button.

"This one is mine.", Shelley finally said, poking the unconscious agent's chest. "I was supposed to pick him up with Solo. But Dasque told me he was dead."

"Dasque made a mistake. I made sure it wouldn't happen again."

"You killed Reed, too. To be honest, I'm surprised it took you that long... I'm curious, though. Do you really think it was worth it? Risking everything just to kill a handful of agents? Surely there must be something else."

Wilfred shrugged.

"They're my targets."

A mischievous smile slowly spread across Shelley's face.

"Well, sorry Owen, but they're _my_ targets now. Once you're dead, I'll think of an entertaining way to kill this handsome young man. Then I'll get back to torturing Solo and Kuryakin for a while."

 _Illya is still alive, then...perfect..._

"Let me have Marshall. You can kill me if you want but just let me kill him first... please, Benjamin..."

"Wow. You really _are_ obsessed... What's so special about him?", Shelley said as he ruffled Asher's hair.

"He's my target."

"You're crazy, Owen. Completely insane.", Shelley chuckled, then he grabbed the agent's left hand and placed it, palm down, on the coffee table.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to chop off one of your precious target's fingers.", Shelley answered, winking at him and setting his gun down on the table.

 _Finally..._

"You don't mind if I borrow your knife, do you?"

 _Not at all, that's an excellent idea, actually..._

Just as Shelley started bending down to pick up his leg sheath, Wilfred slipped his right hand out the cuff and reached behind his back for the object tucked in the waistband of his underwear.

 _Now..._

Conor's backpack suddenly exploded and Shelley, who had been standing right next to it, started screaming. Perfect. Wilfred immediately rushed toward the coffee table. The small explosive charge in Conor's backpack was a nice diversion, but he knew that it probably wasn't powerful enough to take Shelley down completely. He needed to hurry, it wouldn't be long before... His thoughts were interrupted as a _very_ pissed off Shelley grabbed him around the neck and yanked him back, just as he was reaching for the gun. He fell backwards, on top of Shelley and immediately felt the assassin's fingers dig hard into his throat, as if the man was trying to rip out his windpipe. Gasping, he blindly threw his elbow backwards, in an attempt to escape Shelley's viselike grip. His elbow connected with what he supposed was Shelley's face, and the pressure on his throat disappeared. He quickly got to his feet and turned around to face his opponent. Shelley was already on his feet and was standing right in front of him. The right side of his face had been damaged by the blast and was bleeding profusely and his right hand was a bloody mess of ripped flesh and shattered bone. Perfect. Wilfred threw a powerful kick, targeting the assassin's injured hand to incapacitate him. But even though Shelley had lost a few fingers, he had not lost his remarkable reflexes. He had obviously anticipated Wilfred's move and dodged the kick, before barreling into him. Instead of resisting, Wilfred let Shelley's momentum carry them and they both went crashing down into the coffee table. As his back hit the table, he blindly reached behind him, feeling for the gun. Shelley had already spotted it and was reaching for it, too, but he realized too late that he would not be able to grab it with his ruined hand. Taking advantage of his colleague's momentary glitch, Wilfred finally located and grabbed the gun. He swung it around and fired it just as Shelley was delivering a vicious punch to his gut. He opened his mouth uselessly as he tried and failed to draw air into his lungs. The violent blow had winded him and for a second he wasn't sure whether or not he had hit Shelley. Then to his relief, he felt a drop of warm liquid fall on his bare chest, just before the other assassin collapsed on top of him. He pushed Shelley's limp body off him, got to his feet, and shot him again, in the back of the head this time. He took a few seconds to catch his breath, then he rolled the body over and, as he stared at his dead colleague's face, a contented smile stretched his lips.

 _Well, that went almost as smoothly as expected..._

His face became serious again as he turned his attention to Asher. Fortunately, the agent did not seem to be injured. Shelley's body had probably shielded him from most of the blast and shrapnel. _And_ he still had all of his fingers. What more could you ask for? A quick shower to wash off Shelley's blood, a fresh set of clothes and he would be on his way. A smile crept back onto his face as he effortlessly dislocated his thumb and easily removed the handcuff that was still attached to his left wrist. As always, discipline had paid off. Next came the reward. And there was no one to stop him now.

* * *

 _ **Shelley's mansion, Illya's p.o.v.**_

* * *

"Cowboy..."

Illya had lost count of how many times he had tried to get his partner's attention. It wasn't working. But that didn't mean that he was going to stop. Shelley had said that the effects of the poison were temporary, so there was a chance that Solo would snap out of it...eventually. Besides, it gave him something to focus on, and kept his mind off the infuriating feeling of powerlessness which would have otherwise threatened his sanity. At least Cowboy was no longer screaming. Being forced to watch Solo suffer and listen to his desperate screams had been a rather unpleasant experience, to say the least. At some point, his partner had lost consciousness. Shortly after, a guard had come into the room and, probably concerned about the water bill, had turned off the faucet. The man had then cut the piece of rope which secured Solo's hand to the faucet and had laid him down on the floor before checking his pulse. Of course the guard had not bothered to tell Illya whether his partner was still alive or not. Thankfully, Solo had "regained consciousness" after a while, although the difference had been far from obvious. He mostly kept his eyes shut, he did not react to Illya's voice, he did not move.

"You're not ignoring me on purpose, are you, Cowboy?"

No reaction. Illya opened his mouth to say something else but the sound of the bolt sliding open behind him stopped him from doing so. He felt his whole body tense and shot a worried glance at his partner. Slow footsteps. One man. He strained his neck and looked back, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of the mysterious visitor.

 _Please let it be a guard..._

Or anyone else but Shelley. Nothing could be worse than Shelley.

"Your breathing has really improved, Illya."

His heart misfired.

 _No..._

* * *

 **Uh-oh... :P End of chapter 12.**

 **Thanks for reading my work, I hope you are enjoying the story so far :)**


	13. Chapter 13

********Chapter 13. This one is definitely an "ouch" chapter. Chapter 14 coming soon, two chapters to go and the story will be complete :)  
********

 ** ** ** **(here are the (updated) designs for Maxime Drancy, Thomas Réant, Conor Reed, Benjamin Shelley, Antoine Barrère , William Wilfred/Owen Blake, and Rolland Cordier (made in character creator 3): "https":"/""/""ibb".co"/"album"/"g9a3qa (just remove the ""))********

* * *

 _ **Wilfred's p.o.v.**_

* * *

He slowly stepped around the chair Illya was tied to. The expression on the Russian's face was so satisfying. Poor Illya looked like he had just been punched in the gut. He had probably been expecting Shelley.

 _Am I really that much worse than Benjamin ?... Yes, I suppose I am..._

His gaze lingered on the Russian's face for a moment, then he turned his attention to the man on the floor. He stepped closer to Solo's sprawled out, trembling body and knelt down beside him. His eyes shifted from the huge bandage around his left hand to the cuts on his other hand, his knees and his feet. He placed his hand on the agent's arm and squeezed it lightly. Solo cried out and his body jerked, as if he had received an electric shock. He smiled. Shelley had apparently made good use of his little gift.

"Fascinating, that poison, don't you think, Illya? At least I don't need to worry about your partner's legendary escape artist skills."

He could read anger in the Russian's eyes. And concern. One thing he had observed during the time he had spent with the team was that Kuryakin was rather protective of his partners.

 _Wait until you see what I have planned for you, my little friend..._

He stood up and walked up to Illya's chair. The agent was tied up in such a way that his range of movement was extremely limited.

"Looks like you're not going anywhere, either, Illya..."

He kept his gaze fixed on the agent's face as he pulled the knife out of his leg sheath.

"Recognize this?", he said, holding the knife up in front of Illya's eyes. "It's yours. I've been meaning to return it..."

He took a second to enjoy the "oh, shit" look in the agent's beautiful blue eyes before he suddenly stabbed the knife into his left thigh. The Russian's strangled gasp of pain and surprise brought a smile to his lips. He watched in silence for a few seconds as his victim struggled to control his breathing.

"Painful, huh? But don't worry, it's not as bad as it feels. And certainly not as bad as a stab wound to the chest. Lungs, heart, aorta... quite a few vital organs and major vessels in there." He pretended to hesitate, letting his finger hover over the agent's chest. "Hmm I think I'll pick the right lung, you'll see, it's quite an interesting experience. But first, I'm going to hurt your soft little heart..."

* * *

 _ **Illya's p.o.v.**_

* * *

Blake had given him one light pat on the chest, then he had left the room without another word. Hurt his soft little heart... Whatever that meant, he knew Blake, and he knew that he was definitely in for a very unpleasant experience. Not that he was particularly eager to get stabbed in the lung, either... He had honestly thought that this day could not get any worse. He had been wrong. Dead wrong. And soon he would be dead, without the "wrong". He blew out a sigh of frustration and struggled against his bonds as hard as he could. His eyes watered from the burning pain in his shoulders. He knew it was useless, he had tried before. Many times. But he and Cowboy were going to die, and just sitting around waiting for death wasn't exactly the Russian way. He could feel the sharp pain from the knife in his thigh every time he moved his legs. He briefly imagined what it would feel like when that same knife pierced his lung. The thought made him struggle even harder. He was so focused on his futile attempts at freeing himself that the sound of the door opening behind him made him jump. Blake was back. And he was not alone. He could hear two sets of footsteps. Who would it be this time? A guard? Shelley? Yet another sadistic freak? Or...

 _Gaby._

His heart sank. Now Blake's words were starting to make sense.

"What's the matter, Illya. Aren't you glad to see that our sweet Gaby is still alive?"

The asshole was holding Gaby at gunpoint, she had her hands cuffed behind her back and a huge gag completely covered the bottom part of her face. She was crying. Illya felt a wave of rage and guilt swell inside him. It was his fault. He had failed to kill Blake. And now his friends were going to pay the price of his failure. Blake was staring at him. The bastard was smiling as if he could read his mind.

"Good thing you didn't pull that knife out, Illya. We might not have been able to have that lovely reunion."

The bastard _could_ read his mind. Illya resisted the urge to curse loudly in his native tongue and instead watched helplessly as Blake dragged a chair toward the center of the room, placed it right in front of him, and forced Gaby to sit down on it. The assassin used the same method that the guards had used for Illya to tie her up, connecting her ankles and her cuffed wrists at the back of the chair. Illya winced in sympathy. He knew how uncomfortable that position was. Blake took a few steps back and smiled at him again. Illya would have given anything for a chance to rip that smile off the assassin's face. He looked into Gaby's eyes. Tears were still streaming down her face and he could hear her soft sobs, muffled by the gag.

"Poor Gaby is upset because she has an explosive charge in her mouth. I borrowed the idea from a colleague of mine. What do you think, Illya?"

Although Illya had not yet experienced the pain of getting stabbed in the lung, he certainly had a pretty good idea of what a metaphorical knife through the heart felt like.

 _No..._

He could not let that happen. Not to Gaby. He had to stop this, somehow.

"Don't do this to her, do it to me instead!"

He saw Blake's smile grow wider.

"What's that, Illya? You'd be willing to trade places with Gaby?"

"Yes."

"Hmm, I didn't hear you say "please"."

He knew that the asshole was playing with him, but he had to try anyway.

"Please.", he answered, as he brutally murdered Blake inside his mind. Over and over again.

"All right. If that's what you really want, then why not?"

 _What?..._

"I'm sure Shelley would have appreciated your sense of spontaneity, Illya."

Illya felt a jolt of adrenaline course through his body. Was Blake really going to let him take Gaby's place? And if he did, what would happen to Gaby? It couldn't be that easy, there had to be a catch... He watched tensely as Blake stepped closer to Gaby's chair and positioned himself behind her to remove the gag.

"I have to warn you, though, it's a rather messy way to die and... oh wait..."

The assassin suddenly froze and knitted his eyebrows, as if in deep thought. Then he smiled. One of the most sadistic smiles Illya had ever seen.

"I think I've changed my mind."

Some invisible hand slowly twisted the knife in Illya's heart. The worst thing was that he had caught the tiny flicker of hope in Gaby's eyes just a few seconds earlier, and now all he could see there was sheer terror and despair.

"The charge is coupled with a timer, dear Gaby has fifteen minutes before her face goes "kaboom". This should be enough for you to let her know how you feel about her", Blake said, winking at him. "And since she can't speak, you don't even have to worry about rejection. And don't worry about Solo, either, the explosion won't be powerful enough to harm him, or you. I would watch out for blood spraying and brain tissue fragments, though... Oh, I almost forgot..."

The assassin pulled something out of his pocket. It was a brown kraft envelope. He transferred it to Gaby's pocket and winked at Illya again.

"Parting gift..."

Stunned, Illya tried to think of something he could say that would stop what was about to happen. But of course there was nothing. Nothing he could say, nothing he could do...

"Well, it's time for me to leave.", Blake said as he checked his watch. "I'm expected elsewhere. But don't worry, Illya. I'll be back soon. And then I'll decide what I want to do with your remaining partner..."

* * *

 _ **Asher's p.o.v.**_

* * *

He cracked his eyes open and blinked several times as he laboriously crawled his way back into the conscious world. Then pain. Sharp. Sudden. _Sharp_.

 _What...?_

He felt confused and disoriented and it took him a few seconds to figure out what was happening to him. Someone was kicking him in the side. Hard. He needed to protect his ribs. Fast. Unfortunately, 'fast' no longer seemed to be part of his skillset... He groaned and clumsily rolled away from the pain, wrapping his arm around his side at the same time. He looked up at the source of the kicking, froze, and just stared stupidly with his mouth half-open. His first thought was "You can't be serious...". His second thought was " _You can't be serious_...". His third thought was a mixture of equal parts of "Shit", "Help", and "I'm screwed".

"Welcome back, Asher. How are you feeling?"

 _Cf. thought number 3..._

"You're going to have to get up if you want a chance to win..."

 _A chance to win...what...?_

Blake had obviously read the confusion in his eyes as he promptly and kindly provided an explanation.

"Hand-to-hand combat. Just you and I, Asher. The rules are simple: winner lives, loser dies."

 _I think I'll pass, thank you..._

But of course it was clear from the look on the assassin's face that he did not really have a choice. Asher quickly scanned his surroundings. The room was spacious but empty, the walls were completely bare. There was only one door at the other end of the room, behind Blake. He kept his eyes on the assassin – and a protective arm wrapped around his side – as he slowly got to his feet. If he remembered correctly, the man was a hand-to-hand combat expert. Great. Just great. He had already had a small preview of Blake's fighting skills during his previous mission. But last time, the assassin had only been trying to immobilize him. This time he would try to kill him... The only "positive" point was that Blake was heavier than him so he would probably have a speed advantage...

 _Come on, Asher, you can do this, just beat the crap out of this bastard…_

As he tried his best to conjure the power of positive thinking, he adopted a fighting stance and drew a deep breath, but before he could exhale, Blake was already moving. And he was moving fast... Asher considered himself a fast fighter. But Blake was _fast_.

 _So much for the speed advantage..._

Feint, punch, dodge, feint again, hook, counter, feint, jab, dodg... oops, too late. Blake's fist barely missed his solar plexus... but not his wounded shoulder. He couldn't suppress a gasp of surprise and pain as he staggered backwards.

"Ooo, what's the matter, Asher? Your shoulder wound, perhaps?"

Before he could react, the assassin hit him again in the exact same spot, sending a vicious front kick into his bite wound. Asher yelped and instinctively gripped his shoulder. It had started bleeding again and a crimson stain was spreading on his shirt.

"Ah, now I can see it..."

The disturbing smile on the assassin's face sent a chill down Asher's spine. A few painful minutes later, his initial – forced – optimism had completely vanished.

 _He's going to kill me. And it's going to hurt…_

As if to illustrate his thoughts, Blake suddenly feinted a jab to his face then immediately threw a powerful cross punch which, this time, failed to miss his solar plexus."Whoosh" went the breath, out of his body. Fortunately, even though the attack had taken him by surprise, he had reflexively leaned his torso back slightly and had not taken the full brunt of Blake's devastating punch. It was still enough to leave him doubled over and feeling as if he would never be able to breathe again. But at least he was still conscious. That was a good thing... right? As he blinked back tears of pain and tried to coax air into his lungs, Asher was vaguely aware of Blake circling around him like a shark. The assassin could have easily knocked him out or killed him. But Blake obviously wanted to make it last. Not that he was complaining. Asher rather enjoyed being alive. And there was always a – tiny – chance that Blake would get overconfident and make a mistake... or trip over his own feet, hit his head and die.

 _Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Asher..._

As he gradually recovered from the vicious blow, he suddenly noticed a brownish-red substance under his fingernails and realized that it was Drancy's blood. The French agent was probably dead. And there was a good chance that his partners were dead, too.

 _And there's a good chance that I'll join them soon..._

* * *

 _ **Solo's p.o.v.**_

* * *

"Hurry up, lazy American!"

 _No need to shout, Peril, I'm not deaf. And what happened to "Please, Cowboy..." and "I know it hurts, Cowboy..."?..._

Napoleon let out a gasp of pain as he resumed crawling toward Gaby's chair. He felt weak and everything hurt. It was nothing compared to the excruciating, debilitating pain he had felt before, of course. But still enough to prevent him from standing up. Or moving fast enough. Although he had used his best acting skills to make sure that the assassin wouldn't notice, the effects of the poison had already started dissipating while Blake had been in the room, but it was a slow process and, once Blake had left, it had taken quite a few precious minutes – and a lot of aggressive cheerleading from Illya – before he had finally been able to roll onto his stomach and start crawling toward Gaby. He did not know how much time they had left but he knew that he needed to move faster. Easier said than done... Not being able to support himself with his injured hand was slowing him down. Hopefully, he would be able to reach the chair without needing another break. He looked up and his gaze settled on Gaby's tear-stained face, her wide, imploring eyes were fixed on him. He would definitely reach it without another break. And sure enough, about a minute later, he was on his knees, behind Gaby's chair, trying to remove her gag. It was not an easy task considering that his left hand was completely useless and that his other hand was not working much better. His gestures were uncharacteristically clumsy. And painful. It felt like a million needles were being stuck in his fingertips. He hissed through clenched teeth.

 _Dammit..._

"Hurry, Cowboy!"

"I'd like to see you try with only one hand..."

"She doesn't have much time left..."

"I'm working as fast as I can..."

"Not fast enough! Untie me!"

"I can't untie you with one hand..."

The Russian was silent for a few seconds, then...

"Use the knife."

"What?"

"The knife, in my leg. Use it, now!"

"Illya..."

"Now!"

His partner was right. The serrated part of the blade would easily cut through his bonds. And then he would bleed out. Or maybe he wouldn't. Maybe. There was no "maybe" in Gaby's case, though. He crawled closer to Illya's chair, briefly looked into his partner's eyes, gritted his teeth and pulled the knife out. He winced as he heard Illya's gasp of pain.

 _Sorry, Peril... payback for that one time you stabbed me..._

Napoleon did not even look at the wound, partly because there was no time, partly because of guilt. He quickly sliced through the rope which connected Illya's wrists to his ankles. The bonds around his wrists were the trickiest and he inadvertently cut Illya's palm in the process but he finally managed to free his partner. Exhausted by the simple task, he let himself crumple to the floor as Illya stood up, grabbed the knife, and rushed to Gaby's side. He watched as his partner used the knife to slice through the gag and copious amounts of tape underneath, took the small explosive charge out of Gaby's mouth and threw it across the room, as far away from them as he could. Illya then dragged Gaby's chair even further away from the explosive device and covered her body with his to shield her.

 _Well... at least Gaby is safe. No need to worry about me. I'll be alright. Blake said it wouldn't be that big of a blast, anyway..._

They did not have to wait long before the charge exploded. Blake had not lied, the blast was far from spectacular... unless it happened inside your mouth. The thought of what could have happened if they had been just a couple of minutes too late made Napoleon shudder. He glanced at Gaby, who had probably just had the exact same thought and was crying even harder. Then at Illya, who was also crying. Tears of blood. Out of his leg.

"Peril, you're bleeding."

Illya looked down at his leg as if he had completely forgotten about the knife wound. He quickly cut through Gaby's bonds, then sat down, examined the wound, grumbled an "I'll live.", and used what remained of the gag and a piece of rope to fashion a makeshift bandage. As soon as he was done, he stood up, limped up to the door and carefully cracked it open. Apparently, Blake had not even bothered to slide the bolt shut.

"What are you doing?"

"I have to find Blake."

"Peril, you're injured, you don't have a gun..."

"I'll find one."

"He has Asher.", Gaby suddenly cut in. "He brought him here. He's going to kill him."

She had stopped crying and was staring at Illya intently. There was a moment of tense silence.

"Find a safe place to hide. I will get Asher.", Illya finally said before he walked out of the room.

 _If Asher is still alive..._

* * *

 _ **Illya's p.o.v.**_

* * *

He did not have a plan, but at least he had a gun. He had found one on the dead guard just outside the basement door. Now he needed to find Asher. That would be much trickier. The place was huge, his wounded leg was slowing him down, and he didn't know how many guards Blake had killed and how many were still alive.

 _And Asher is probably already dead..._

He shook the thought away. No one deserved to die at Blake's hands. And certainly not Asher Marshall. Illya clenched his teeth and forced himself to walk faster. The American was still alive. He had to be.

* * *

 _ **Asher's p.o.v.**_

* * *

 _Get up. Get up or you're dead..._

He tried to stand up. His body refused.

 _Well...I guess you're dead, then..._

Another kick in the ribs. He heard himself cry out and barely recognized his own voice. Blake was probably making sure that he was not faking it. He wasn't. He suddenly felt a metallic taste in the back of his throat, coughed, and spat out a mix of blood and saliva.

"What's wrong, Asher? Tired already?..."

Already?! Blake had been kicking his butt for a good twenty minutes. It did not seem like much but it certainly felt like a long time when you were facing a hand-to-hand combat expert whose goal was to make your death as painful as possible. He definitely had some broken ribs, maybe more than just "some" – apparently, his ribs were Blake's favorite target – and his whole body felt like one giant bruise. He had also taken a couple of punches to the side of the head which had left him more than a little groggy. At least he had still managed to hit the assassin a few times. He had even given Blake a bloody lip with one of his elbow strikes. But it had never been enough to give him an opportunity to turn the tables and land a finishing blow. Worse, his blows had not seemed to have much effect. If anything, Blake had seemed to enjoy the pain. Asher even suspected that the assassin had let him land a few punches on purpose. He could feel that he was slower and less focused than usual. The lingering effects of the drug Blake had given him probably had something to do with it. Getting beaten to a pulp had not helped, either. He struggled to push himself up to his hands and knees. Blake, of course, chose that moment to brutally stomp on his left hand. Ouch. _Ouch_. As the assassin diligently crushed his poor hand, Asher grabbed the man's leg to try and throw him off balance. For a few seconds, he actually thought that it was working. Blake's foot lifted and, to his relief, the crushing pressure on his hand disappeared.

 _Small victories..._

But, as the assassin grabbed his arm and he felt Blake's leg hook around his head, another, much less pleasant thought crossed his mind.

 _Cross armlock..._

Before he could do anything, Blake squatted down and rolled onto his back, pulling his arm until it was overextended... He heard a loud, sickening crack as the assassin lifted his hips and pulled down hard, breaking his arm.

* * *

 _ **Wilfred's p.o.v.**_

* * *

He felt the agent's arm break, heard him scream... and kept pulling. Poor Asher would not be throwing any more straight rights. Ever again. Now, the left side. He kept his hold on the agent's now useless right arm to prevent him from rolling onto his stomach while he shifted his position, transferring his weight onto Asher's torso, crushing his - probably broken - ribs. Gasp, cough, whimper. He used his thumb to wipe the small drop of blood at the corner of the agent's mouth and chuckled. One thing he liked about Asher was that he was very expressive when he was in pain. He gave another chuckle as Asher tried to throw a hook with his only functional arm. The brave little agent was not giving up.

"You're right, Asher, we need to take care of that side, too."

 _Good thing I didn't let Shelley cut off your fingers..._

He grabbed the agent's left wrist, closed his other hand around Asher's index finger and twisted it. Hard. "Snap" went the finger. "Argh" went the agent. He repeated the same process with Asher's thumb and gave a small sigh of satisfaction before he let the agent's arm drop back down. He studied Asher's pain-contorted features for a few seconds. Shelley had asked him if it was worth it. It definitely was. And what he was about to do would be even more satisfying. Like finally scratching an itch he had had for much too long. The sound of Asher's rapid, shallow breathing made him smile in anticipation.

 _Let me fix that for you, my little friend..._

He brought his right leg over to the side of Asher's body, shifting his position to a side control. The agent groaned but did not move. He then went into a scarf hold, slipping his right arm around his victim's head. He pushed Asher's broken arm across then clasped his hands together, trapping the agent's head and shoulder in a tight grip. Now Asher was struggling. Maybe it was the pressure on his broken arm. Or maybe he had recognized the technique... Finally, he pulled Asher's head up while simultaneously leaning back and driving his full bodyweight into the agent's chest. He chuckled softly as he heard the air come out of his victim's lungs.

"I hope you enjoyed your last breath, Asher..."

Although he rarely had occasion to use it, this chest compression choke was one of his favorite techniques. Raising an opponent's head and compressing their chest at the same time prevented their respiratory muscles from elevating the ribs and allowing oxygen into the lungs. This caused a sensation akin to drowning. A sensation which Asher seemed to find particularly unpleasant. The agent was looking at him with wide eyes, his mouth open, as he tried hard to breathe in and nothing happened.

 _I bet this brings back fun memories. I'm curious to see how long you will last. And I'm not leaving, this time...  
_

"If it makes you feel any better...", he said softly, giving Asher his best smile, "You're actually a really good fighter, Asher."

The smile remained on his lips as he watched his target slowly suffocate. After a short while, the agent's features relaxed and his eyes lost their focus. He gave a soft laugh.

"Uh-oh, you're going to sleep, Asher."

In this position, he could feel the agent's struggling heartbeat directly under his body. He would also be able to feel the exact moment when it stopped. Perfect. Then he heard the sound of the door being kicked open.

 _Shit..._

He barely had time to turn around before he heard a shot and felt something hit him in the chest.

 _Shit!_

* * *

 _ **Cordier's p.o.v.**_

* * *

"Vous savez quoi faire de celui-là. / You know what to do with this one."

Rolland Cordier watched as two of his men dragged the body out of the room.

"Comment allons-nous justifier le fait de l'avoir abattu? / How are we going to justify killing him?"

"Eh bien, il a tué un de mes hommes. / Simple, he killed one of my men."

As he uttered those words, Cordier pointed his gun at one of his men and pulled the trigger. The bullet caught the man in the forehead and he collapsed on the floor. Cordier gestured with the gun and his two remaining men dragged the dead man out, leaving him and his colleague alone in the room.

"Et lui ?/ What about him ?"

Cordier's gaze shifted to Marshall. The CIA agent was unconscious but he was breathing.

"Lui, oh, malheureusement il était déjà mort avant que nous arrivions. Mort par asphyxie. / Him, oh, unfortunately, he was already dead before we got here. Death by asphyxiation."

Cordier knelt down beside the agent and gave him a few light taps on the cheek, after a few seconds, Marshall's eyes fluttered open. The poor boy looked surprised to be alive. It took another couple of seconds for his gaze to focus on Cordier's face. The Frenchman felt a smile stretch his lips as the agent's eyes suddenly grew wide. He knew exactly what Marshall was looking at. The missing lobe of his left ear. Souvenir of a particularly unpleasant encounter with the Russians when he was still working with the CIA.

 _Je vois que ce cher Maxime a pris le temps de te parler de moi…/ Apparently, dear Maxime took the time to tell you about me..._

He could read fear in the agent's eyes now. Marshall raised his left arm and waved it around in a feeble attempt to hit him. Two of his fingers appeared to be badly broken. Wilfred's handiwork. Cordier gave a soft laugh and grabbed Marshall's flailing hand, crushing his broken fingers. He covered Marshall's mouth with his other hand, just as the agent was opening it to scream, and used his fingers to pinch his nose shut. Marshall started panicking and tried to struggle but he was obviously too weak, too broken. Now all he needed to do was wait.

"Là, là, mon garçon, c'est presque fini. / There, there, son. It's almost over."

Keeping Marshall's airways obstructed, he used his other hand to monitor the agent's pulse. It didn't take long before he stopped feeling the rhythmical throbbing beneath his fingers.

 _C'est bien, mon garçon... / Attaboy..._

"Get away from him."

As he recognized the man's accent, Cordier had to fight the urge to grab his gun, turn around, and shoot the Russian in the face. Instead, he exchanged a brief glance with his colleague and slightly shifted the position of his hand, keeping Marshall's nose pinched shut but no longer covering his mouth. Then he bent down over the agent and blew air into his mouth.

"Kuryakin, I assume.", he said as he stopped administering rescue breathing and switched to chest compressions. "I'm Rolland Cordier from the DST. Maxime Drancy's superior. Listen, your colleague here is in pretty bad shape. I'm only trying to save him…"

No sooner had he finished his sentence than the Russian was roughly pushing him out of the way. He stood up and watched as Kuryakin started pressing down on Marshall's chest – much more aggressively than he had done – only stopping to administer rescue breaths and check his pulse. As the minutes went by, it became clear that the Russian's efforts to revive his partner were in vain. Cordier had to suppress a smile of satisfaction. Marshall would never reveal his little secret. Not to Kuryakin. Not to anyone. It wasn't that he did not want to kill the KGB agent, quite the opposite, actually. But saving all three of Waverly's agents was better than only saving two. Apparently, his British colleague was rather fond of his little international team. He would certainly be grateful, and indebted to him for rescuing his agents. Marshall, on the other hand, was Sanders's boy, he was not part of the team so his death would be of no consequence. Everything was working out just the way he had planned. Parfait... Kuryakin still hadn't given up and he suddenly heard the distinct sound of bones cracking. At this rate, the Russian would soon punch a hole right through Marshall's chest. He stepped closer and put his hand on the KGB agent's shoulder, suppressing a shudder of disgust as he did so.

"I'm sorry, Kuryakin..."

He squeezed the agent's shoulder and gently tried to pull him away from Marshall's body. Kuryakin resisted at first, then eventually stopped turning Marshall's internal organs to paste. As he gave the agent a moment to regain some degree of composure, Cordier's gaze settled on the Russian's trembling hands and his heart began to pound with sadistic joy.

 _Ça fait mal, hein, mon garçon ?.../ It's really hurts, doesn't it, son?..._

* * *

 **End of chapter 13.**

 **I hope you enjoyed the read :)**


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14. Only one tiny tiny chapter left before the story is complete :)**

* * *

 _ **Solo's p.o.v.**_

* * *

"Ow!.."

 _Dammit..._

"Could you try to be a little quieter?"

"My apologies, I'll try to suffer in silence."

"Do you really have to do this now?"

Napoleon looked up at Gaby who was standing in front of the door and was staring at it nervously. She was holding the gun awkwardly with her cuffed hands, keeping it pointed at the door.

"As a matter of fact... I do. I don't want to give Sanders the satisfaction of pointing out how useless I was during this mission."

She shot him an incredulous glance.

"Considering what you've been through, I think he'll understand."

"Gaby, it's Sanders we're talking about."

Gaby shrugged and turned her attention back to the door while he turned his attention back to the desk drawer he had been searching. They were in what he believed was Shelley's study. After Illya had left to find Asher, they had waited in the basement for a while, unsure what to do. "Find a safe place to hide", yeah right. Easier said than done, Peril. Napoleon still hadn't completely recovered from the effects of the poison and not only did he not have a gun, he was almost naked and the thought of roaming the mansion in his underwear was not particularly appealing. After some contortion, Gaby had managed to slide her cuffed hands down her butt and bring them to the front and she had decided to go looking for a gun. Napoleon had tried to dissuade her but he had quickly realized that he didn't really have a say in the matter. After a while, and to his relief, Gaby had come back with a gun which she has found on a dead guard. At that point, he had recovered enough to be able to stand up and walk, and they had left the basement. They had cautiously made their way to the first floor and had managed to find a telephone in one of the rooms. Unfortunately the line had been dead. It was when they had reached the second floor that Napoleon had suddenly recognized his surroundings. He had walked through those corridors earlier, when Shelley had taken him to the bathroom. Just as he had been about to jokingly suggest a bathroom break, they had heard footsteps coming in their direction and had quickly pushed open the first door they had found. They had waited in tense silence for the footstep sounds to recede, then Napoleon had decided to start exploring the room. They had found another door which had led them to the small study they were now hiding in.

"Bingo..."

Just as Napoleon suspected, the drawer had a secret compartment. He glanced up at Gaby and gave her his most charming smile. Her gun was still trained on the door but her eyes were now fixed on the drawer. He reached inside the hidden niche with his "good" hand, grimacing as his painfully sensitive skin rubbed against the wood, and pulled out a book and a small notepad. Curiosity got the best of Gaby and she finally lowered the gun and stepped closer. The book was an anthology of English poetry. Napoleon carefully used his right hand to flip through it but did not find anything unusual. He turned his attention to the notepad and looked at the first few pages. To his disappointment, he only found what appeared to be drafts of poems.

"Apparently, Shelley was quite the poet... Some of these aren't bad at all..."

But Shelley's talents as a poet probably wouldn't impress Sanders. Napoleon flicked through a few more pages and was about to discard the notepad when something caught his attention. One of the pages was not like the others. No carefully crafted sentences, or vivid metaphors. Only numbers. He thoroughly examined the rest of the notepad and realized that there were other, similar pages hidden among the poems. No words, just series of numbers. His gaze shifted back to the anthology of English poetry.

 _Book cipher..._

"Agents Solo and Teller?"

Napoleon's heart skipped a few beats as his head snapped up. Focused on his discovery, they had not noticed that the door to their hiding place was being pushed open, slowly and silently. In his peripheral vision, he saw Gaby spin around and bring the gun up. The man at the door immediately raised his hands in a placating gesture.

"Don't shoot! We're DST agents. We're here to rescue you."

Napoleon exchanged a glance with Gaby who hesitated a few more seconds, then probably decided that the man's unthreatening attitude and heavy French accent were convincing enough and lowered the gun. The French agent nodded at her and stepped into the room, followed by three other men. He looked only slightly older than Napoleon and had unusual, piercing, light green eyes. He introduced himself as Théophile Devanne and was apparently one of Maxime Drancy's superiors.

"Well, agent Devanne, you almost got yourself shot.", Napoleon remarked, with a slight smile.

The man did not return his smile.

"Sorry, we didn't mean to startle you. It's a good thing we found you before the enemies did. A few of them were still alive and hiding on this floor." Devanne paused and his gaze briefly traveled up and down Napoleon's body. For a few awkward seconds, Napoleon thought that the man was going to mention his lack of clothing. Then the French agent's eyes shifted to the open drawer, and finally settled on the book in front of Napoleon. "Did you find anything interesting?"

"Oh, no. Just an old poetry book and a few manuscript drafts...", Napoleon answered dismissively.

He wasn't sure exactly why, but he was reluctant to share what he had discovered with the French agent.

"Hmm. There might be more to it than meets the eye, who knows.", Devanne said, his peculiar eyes still fixed on the book.

He nodded at one of his men who walked up to the desk and grabbed the book and the notepad. Napoleon struggled to hide his annoyance. He had memorized the title and edition of the book, but this information was useless without the notepad.

"We should go now. Your Russian colleague is waiting for you downstairs. And medical help should be here soon. You look like you need it.", Devanne added, as he pointed at the bandage around Napoleon's hand. "We might be able to get you some clothes, too..."

Napoleon looked at Gaby and saw his own relief reflected in her eyes. Illya was alive. But it wasn't long before a shadow passed over Gaby's face, and relief gave way to concern.

"What about Asher Marshall?", she asked. "Did you find him, too?"

Devanne turned to look at her but did not answer.

"Good looking guy, light brown hair...", Napoleon added, interpreting the man's silence as confusion.

"I'm afraid he didn't make it.", Devanne finally answered.

Napoleon felt his heart sink.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, very sure. Your colleague performed CPR for quite some time."

 _Dammit...Illya..._

* * *

 _ **Illya's p.o.v.**_

* * *

Illya kept his eyes fixed on Asher's lifeless features as Cordier explained how they had received a distress signal from Drancy and had found the French agent seriously injured but still conscious. The medics had done what they could to stabilize him and he had managed to give them Waverly's name and the coordinates to Shelley's mansion. Cordier had immediately contacted Waverly and had decided to go investigate Shelley's place with a few of his men. They had found a lot of dead guards and had walked in on one very alive Blake as he was suffocating Asher. They had tried to take the assassin alive but he had apparently managed to kill one of Cordier's men before he had been shot dead by one of the other agents. As Cordier paused and let out a weary sigh, Illya finally tore his gaze away from Asher's face and looked up at the Frenchman. They were alone in the room. Cordier's colleague had left, taking a few men with him to find Cowboy and Gaby.

"I want to see the body.", he suddenly said, looking the Frenchman dead in the eye.

"Kuryakin..."

"Now."

"My men already took him away. And I'm not sure you should be walking around too much with your wounded leg..."

"Now."

"Fine."

Illya laboriously got to his feet, refusing Cordier's help, and followed him outside. Blake's body was lying in the back of a truck. The assassin had a bloody hole in his chest, right at heart level. Illya felt his fists clench. The bastard probably hadn't suffered long. Unlike Asher. Illya still remembered vividly the one time he had fought Blake. He knew how vicious the man was. How much he enjoyed playing with his victims before incapacitating and killing them. He could easily imagine the torture Asher had suffered at the hands of the assassin. He took a deep breath, as he tried hard to control the anger that threatened to engulf him, then he pressed two fingers against the assassin's carotid artery and waited. Nothing. Blake was gone. He let his hand drop back down to his side and for a moment, he just stood there, staring at the small hole in the assassin's chest.

"Let's get back inside, hopefully the medical team will be here soon.", Cordier finally said, gesturing toward the mansion.

As Illya stepped away from the truck, his wounded leg suddenly buckled and the Frenchman caught him by the arm, just before he went down. He took a few seconds to steady himself then he angrily snatched his arm back and limped away, hoping that his leg would support him until he reached the door. He knew that Cordier and his team had probably saved his life. And he knew that Cordier had tried to save Asher. Still he couldn't help but resent the man for granting Blake a quick death and for arriving just a few minutes too late. Of course, it was nothing compared to the anger he directed at himself. He had failed to kill Blake. He had been weak. And his weakness had cost Asher his life... As these torturous thoughts kept turning over and over again in his mind, Illya finally reached the front door... and almost bumped into one of Cordier's men, who was apparently looking for his superior.

"On a trouvé Solo et Teller. / We've found Solo and Teller."

"Bien. At least, you still have two partners alive out of three, Kuryakin."

 _What?..._

Illya frowned and turned to look at the Frenchman. He studied Cordier's face for a second, trying to decide whether or not he should punch his head off. But the man looked genuinely sorry for him, so Illya simply turned around and stepped through the door. It was time to face his partners. And his guilt.

* * *

 _ **MI6 building, Waverly's p.o.v.**_

* * *

"And Drancy? Did you find out what happened to him?"

Waverly stared at his American colleague for a few seconds. He knew exactly why Adrian was asking that question, and why he was doing it in front of his agents. He took a deep breath and gave the man a polite smile before he answered.

"Maxime died en route to the hospital. His heart gave out."

"Not so surprising when you decide to send an agent with a heart condition on an extremely dangerous mission... You have a strange way of treating your friends."

Waverly noticed the uneasy look on his agents' faces but pretended to ignore it. He could understand Sanders's reaction. To say that the American was pissed off about losing Marshall was an understatement. And since Marshall had been under his supervision, Sanders was blaming him for everything. Insisting on the fact that he was responsible for his friend's death was the American's way of getting even. The meeting went on for a while, in the same tense atmosphere. Then, at some point, Sanders checked his watch, abruptly stated that he had to leave and stood up. Waverly watched the American make his way to the door of the meeting room. Just as he was reaching it, Sanders stopped and turned to face him.

"I would appreciate it, and I'm sure that Cordier will agree with me, if next time you could try to get some of your _own_ agents killed, for a change..."

A few seconds passed in uncomfortable silence after Sanders had left the room. Waverly slowly turned back around to face his two agents. Only Solo and Miss Teller had been able to attend the meeting. Kuryakin was in Russia. Apparently the KGB needed him for some unspecified assignment. Nothing too physically demanding, he supposed, since Kuryakin was still recovering from his leg wound. It was probably a good thing that the Russian had not been able to attend. The last thing Kuryakin needed was to hear Sanders complain about Marshall's death. He knew that the Russian was blaming himself. He also knew that Kuryakin had done everything in his power to save the young agent. With his wounded leg, it was already impressive that he had been able to get to Marshall at all. And the odds of restarting someone's heart with CPR alone were close to zero... The Russian had done what he could but poor Marshall had simply run out of luck. That probably wouldn't stop Kuryakin from torturing himself with unjustified guilt. Hopefully, his KGB "assignment" would keep him from brooding over it too much.

"That wasn't fair, Sir.", Solo said after a while, breaking the silence and interrupting his train of thought.

Waverly felt himself smile sadly.

"Oh, Adrian _is_ right about a few things, unfortunately. And he's not the only one blaming me. Cordier was slightly more subtle about it but I can tell he isn't too happy about Maxime's death, either. Especially since Maxime is the second agent he's lost in the span of a few months. And that's without counting the man Blake killed before they shot him dead..."

"You couldn't have predicted how things were going to turn out. The organization was one step ahead the whole time."

"I knew about Maxime's health issues."

 _And I'm also responsible for the information leaks..._

That part he had not mentioned to his agents yet. Cordier and his men had found several bugs inside Maxime's house and car, and a tracker had also been found on his body, which meant that getting Maxime involved had not only led to his death, but had also provided the organization with crucial information about the mission. The news had surprised him. It wasn't like Maxime to be so careless. But his friend had probably been preoccupied with his health and had let his guard down...

* * *

 _ **Solo's p.o.v.**_

* * *

Waverly remained silent for a minute, apparently lost in his thoughts. Then he placed the object he had been fiddling with since the beginning of the meeting on the table in front of him. It looked like a small gold medallion on a broken chain.

"Anyway", he finally said. "We have some work to do. And this time we'll be joining forces with the French. Officially."

Napoleon exchanged a perplexed glance with Gaby.

"I beg your pardon, Sir?"

"What? You didn't think that Cordier had come to rescue you out of the kindness of his heart, did you, Solo? That's not the man's style, believe me. He wants in on the investigation. Which isn't such a bad thing since it means more resources and manpower. Of course, it also means sharing all the information we have with our French colleagues – another thing Sanders isn't too happy about."

Napoleon snorted inwardly as he recalled the episode with the notepad and the poetry book at Shelley's place.

 _It pains me to admit it, but I agree with Sanders, for once..._

"Who knows", Waverly continued, "with their help and the gruesome little present Blake graciously left us, we might finally reach a breakthrough in this investigation..."

Their handler was referring to the "parting gift" Blake had left in Gaby's pocket. The envelope had contained a note with coordinates. The team which had been sent to investigate the location had found a large building, hidden in the woods, away from prying eyes. Full of dead people. Apparently, they had all been killed by some type of poisonous gas. Except for two men who, judging by the disturbing condition of their bodies, had died before the gas had been released. Both men had been found shirtless, lying on the floor, with their hands cuffed behind their backs. Their Achilles tendons had been severed. Their tongues had also been chopped off and stuffed back inside their mouths. If they had still been alive after that ordeal, they had certainly died when their throats had been slit from ear to ear. Near the bodies, the agents had found a printed list of names, similar to the one Waverly had given to Drancy. Next to some of the names, the assassin had scribbled an equal sign, followed by a different name. A quick check had led them to the conclusion that the scribbled names were most probably the real identities of some of the aliases on the list. As a macabre bonus, Blake had also given them the identity of the two dead men in the room, whose names had been carved into the skin of their chests. Samuel Landry and Christopher Warren...

Why the assassin had decided to provide them with that information would forever remain a mystery. Maybe he had had a falling-out with his employers and had turned against the organization. Napoleon sighed inwardly. It didn't matter anyway. Blake was dead. All that mattered now was that they had the information and were more determined than ever to take down the organization. And to make sure that Asher and Drancy had not died in vain. As Waverly gave them the details of the upcoming mission, Napoleon's gaze fell on the fresh scar on the back of his left hand. According to the surgeons who had worked on his hand, he had been very lucky, and they were confident that there would be no permanent damage. And, thankfully, he was no longer experiencing the random episodes of intense pain which had plagued him for days after they had been rescued. His doctors had explained that both his body and his mind would need time and rest to fully recover from the effects of the poison. And Gaby was there to make sure that he scrupulously followed doctors' orders. He still had a few weeks left of convalescence and rehabilitation before he could get back to active duty. Hopefully, that would give Illya enough time to complete his assignment with the KGB. And then the team would be complete again. And they would make those bastards pay.

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 **End of chapter 14. Chapter 15 coming soon. Thank you guys for taking the time to read my stuff :)**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15! Final chapter of the story :)**

 **First chapter of the sequel is out: Échec aux rois (Check to the kings) :)**

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 _ **Unknown location**_

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"Careful with this one, he has a bad heart."

"Oh, I know."

"Hmm. Just make sure he doesn't die on us. He's the only lead we have."

"He won't die. Trust me."

"Trust you?... Not a chance, I value my life too much. Let me know immediately if he starts talking."

"Of course…Sir."

"And don't forget, as long as you cooperate, you and your precious quarry stay alive. And who knows, if you manage to get something out of those two, maybe we'll let you have a little - supervised - session with him..."

His eyes opened slowly as he regained consciousness. Darkness. He could hear voices. But he couldn't see anything. Two voices. Quiet. Muffled. There was something over his head. Some kind of hood. He couldn't move. His heart was beating too fast. He was breathing too loud...

"He's awake."

 _Merde... / Shit..._

He felt the hood being lifted from his face and the sudden brightness blinded him. He blinked a few times and inhaled deeply, trying to regain control of his breathing. He could not see his captors but he could feel their presence, right behind him. In front of him was a chair. Tied to that chair was the body of a man with a heavily bloodstained hood over his head. The dead man's head was thrown back, his throat exposed. He knew exactly who that man was. He did not need to see his face. The thin, white scar across his neck was enough.

 _Putain, c'est quoi cette mise en scène ?... / What kind of sick game is this?..._

Thomas had been dead for months. But the man in front of him couldn't have been dead for that long. Maybe a few hours, at most. The dead man couldn't be Thomas. Unless…

He heard movement behind him and one of his captors appeared in his field of vision. His eyes zeroed in on the man's face. He had never seen him before.

"I think it's time for our last participant to join in..."

 _Américain... / American..._

As he tried to make sense of the man's words, his captor walked up to the chair with the dead man, positioned himself behind it, raised his hand and stabbed a syringe he had not noticed before into the corpse's shoulder. To his utter surprise, the corpse jerked, as if it had received an electric shock, and started coughing.

 _Il est vivant…_ _/ He's alive..._

He held his breath as his captor reached for the hood…

 _Merde…Thomas… / Shit...Thomas..._

As he stared at his recently un-deceased partner's face and tried to wrap his head around what had just happened, the man who had removed the hood casually stepped away from the chair and made his way to the door at the other end of the room.

"They're all yours.", the American said, as he opened the door. "But remember, they'd better still be breathing when I get back. Even Réant.", he added before he stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Several seconds of silence passed after the man had left the room. Thomas had obviously recognized him but he hadn't uttered a single word. He didn't look well. His sweaty brown hair stuck to his forehead and there was dried blood around his nose and mouth, contrasting with his uncharacteristically pale face. He also noticed that his partner was staring intently at his chest, for some reason. But before he could ponder Thomas's strange behavior, or look down to see what he was staring at, he heard movement behind him again. And a voice. A familiar voice. Probably the last voice he wanted to hear in his current situation.

"Glad to see you're feeling so much better, Maxime."

The man stepped into his field of vision. He had guessed right. Beard-guy. He had lost the beard, though.

"You're probably wondering what's going on." The assassin paused and smiled. A slight, unsettling smile. "Well, your friend Thomas, here, made the mistake of taking something that belongs to the organization. Apparently, you can help us find it, so your superior thought it would be a good idea to organize this little reunion."

 _Hein?... / What?..._

"J'suis désolé, Max… dis rien... laisse-les me tuer, faut que tu les laisses me tuer... / I'm sorry, Max… don't tell them anything... just let them kill me, you have to let them kill me..."

The assassin clicked his tongue disapprovingly and put his finger to his lips.

"Shh, Thomas. We wouldn't want to overstress your partner's fragile heart, now, would we?"

He watched as the assassin went to position himself behind Thomas and put a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"But let's get to work, shall we? Tell me, my little friend, what's the most painful thing we could do to Thomas?"

 _Merde.../ Shit..._

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 **End of chapter 15. End of the story! Yeah, yeah, I know... I'm just terrible at killing off good guys :P I hope you enjoyed the story :)  
**


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